


into the light

by Psilent (HereThereBeFic)



Series: catch your breath; there are no breaks [5]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst and Humor, Developing Relationship, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Magic, Mystery, Number 9 Was Not Nice, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partially Fae Robbie, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Swearing, dark au, glamour, neurodivergent characters, Íþrótt is Sport's brother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9183037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereThereBeFic/pseuds/Psilent
Summary: About ten years ago, something went very wrong in LazyTown.The exact nature of thatsomethingis locked up tight in Robbie Rotten's subconscious. He and Sportacus have successfully broken free of Number 9's glamour, but that was just the beginning. As past events continue to reveal themselves, Our Heroes enlist outside help to protect their town and the people in it.And the people who should be, but aren't.(Or: Robbie really wishes his life would choose a genre. Getting yanked back and forth between horror and romcom is making him dizzy.)[Update June 2017: This fic is still not on active hiatus, just on the backburner longer than I thought as slightly more Life happens than I was expecting. All good news, just very busy! Thanks for your patience, sorry for the wait.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And we're back! :D First, again, thank you so much to everyone reading and especially to everyone commenting, I can't even begin to explain how much all your comments mean to me. I have legitimately teared up more than once lol.
> 
> Second of all, to reiterate the warning from the end notes of the last installment: this gets _dark_. I'm sticking with the Teen And Up rating for now, and just adding a strong encouragement to check the tags each time a new chapter goes up. "Horror" and "Psychological Horror" are here for two different reasons. There are a couple of things in later chapters that I'm going to stick specific warnings for in the end notes so people can scroll to them if they're more worried about content than spoilers.
> 
> Third of all, hi this is going to be one of the longest ongoing WIPs I've ever done and I am terrified hahahahaha
> 
> eta: forgot to say, i am also [on tumblr](http://openthedooritschip.tumblr.com/)!

"She –– no, brown hair, maybe? Or... red. It might have been a wig? It might have been different wigs. ...It might have been different people. Just –– _ugh_ , just cross all of that out."

Instead of doing that, Sportacus carefully erased what he had written, brushed the eraser shavings aside, and said, "How many different people?"

"I said cross it _out_ ," Robbie admonished, snapping his fingers. The eraser shavings vanished. "Surely you don't think I ever _vacuum_ this place."

Ah. So today's discussion had reached the most consistent step of their daily attempts: deflection.

Sportacus shut his notebook and jumped off the treadmill Robbie had reluctantly allowed him to leave in his lair for their conversations. ("Sorry that dredging up my repressed memories is apparently _boring_ ; by all means keep yourself _entertained_.")

It had been nearly a week. They hadn't come up with much –– a few names and a few descriptions, none of which Robbie seemed very confident about connecting to each other.

Sportacus leafed through the notebook, mostly just for something to do with his hands while he thought about how to proceed. "I know you're frustrated," he said. "Is –– is there anything I can do to help?"

"Sure." Robbie leveled an upside-down glare at him from where he was draped the wrong way around in his chair. "Climb inside my brain and start pulling out facts."

"Oh!" Sportacus said brightly, and turned a cartwheel into a one-armed handstand, grinning at a very unimpressed-looking Robbie now that he could look him in the eye right-side-up. Sort of. "Well, Pixel does have a machine that––"

"I was _joking_ ," Robbie snapped, scrambling to right himself in the chair without falling out of it. "Does no one _supervise_ that kid?"

"His parents are very supportive."

"He is _dangerous_."

"You have a machine that turns toys into people and people into toys," Sportacus pointed out, "and _that's_ just the first one that came to mind. Anyway, we're getting off subject." It was frustratingly easy to let Robbie draw him into familiar, distracting banter. And Robbie knew it.

"Right, right," Robbie muttered, rolling his eyes. "Silly me, trying to have conversations that _don't_ revolve around some horrible mystery."

Oh.

Reflecting briefly on the past several days, Sportacus realized they really _hadn't_ interacted much outside of these conversations or the usual business with the kids. Not that they ever had _before_ , really, but...

"You know," he said, flipping back onto his feet, "you can call me any time. We _do_ have to talk about this, but –– you're right. It doesn't have to be the _only_ thing we talk about."

Now Robbie was staring at him. And turning pink. "Um."

"I mean –– I mean, now is as good a time as ever to try being friends, right?" Sportacus managed, his own face heating up considerably. "Better late than never?" Unsure of how to follow that up, he stuck out one hand, immediately regretted it, and decided to see it through anyway.

Robbie shook his hand cautiously, like he was expecting a trick. "Sure," he said. " _Friendship_ , communication, all that junk. Whatever. Some other time, though." He yawned, letting go of Sportacus's hand to stretch theatrically, cracking his back. "This... introspection _stuff_ is exhausting."

"Right." Sportacus flipped open one bracer, glancing briefly at the display. "It's nearly eight o'clock anyway; I should get going."

"Yep," Robbie said loudly, sprawling out in the chair and waving lazily. "Goodbye!"

"Good night." Sportacus waved back uncertainly and climbed up the chute, trying not to think about the fact that Robbie was likely to either stay put in that same spine-bending position for the next several hours, or get up and work on dangerous machinery all night. Both possibilities made him want to wince.

Exiting the lair was always a relief. Their little... _adventure_ in the woods had done absolutely nothing for the unease he felt at spending too much time in what was clearly Fae Territory. He hadn't mentioned it to Robbie, who didn't seem to realize it was happening at all –– he left his place unwarded and presumably figured that was enough. Sportacus was just relieved Robbie was letting him help with this at all; he wasn't about to throw a wrench in the works by requesting a different location.

Lack of wards aside, it was mostly Robbie's continued tolerance of the presence of _exercise equipment_ in his lair that had Sportacus convinced he didn't know the place was having an adverse effect on him. It didn't make sense that he'd be willing to compromise on _that_ , but not something more serious.

Then again, maybe he did know, and the treadmill was an apology.

Mind chasing itself in these unproductive but innocuous circles, Sportacus headed out to where he'd left his ship. He sidetracked himself into a few more flips and cartwheels than usual along the way, trying to burn off as much excess energy as possible.

His thoughts continued to wander as he climbed the ladder.

It was _definitely_ just the fae thing that was bothering him, and not _at all_ that spending so much unprecedented time alone with Robbie was forcing him to examine certain thoughts and emotions that he'd apparently been repeatedly brushing off without even consciously _realizing_ it over the past, oh, two _years_ , give or take?

"All right," he muttered, once he was inside and therefore safely out of earshot of any surveillance equipment. (Robbie's _or_ Pixel's.) He rapped his knuckles twice against the crystal over his chest, glaring at it in lieu of the ability to directly engage in a stern stare-down with his own heart. " _Stop_ that. There's more important things going on."

Still. On the list of things he couldn't help but worry about as he drifted off, awkward and overly complicated feelings were... probably the most pleasant, lately.

At least there was that.

* * *

On Robbie's own personal list of things to worry about instead of sleeping, inconvenient and utterly uncalled for _feelings_ were only the least horrifying option by dint of not actually involving the probable _deaths_ of countless people.

He sat unmoving in his chair, glaring at the chute Sportacus had left through and willing his brain to linger on _anything else_.

...Anything else _except_ the tangle of memories he'd spent the past hour wrestling with.

Growling in disgust, he shoved himself out of his chair and stalked over to the cake machine. Maybe a snack would at least give him something else to focus on for a while.

It shouldn't have been this _difficult_. He'd dealt with glamours before, and he'd dealt with his own _brain_ before, and for the most part he'd found that these things were like ripping off a bandaid. You dealt with whatever thralls the glamour had had built into it for reinforcement, and then you dealt with the ensuing revelation. You didn't, generally speaking, go through all the effort and exhaustion and _pain_ of breaking a glamour _and_ _then_ have to contend with your own brain trying to pick up its slack.

A certain amount of subconscious reluctance was only to be expected, of course. A layer of shock, some general denial, a disconnect in critical thinking when approaching the subject –– all normal.

But this felt like... _more_. There were facts he simply wasn't able to access; he could feel them, flitting just out of his reach, at the very edge of hazy memories that refused to solidify. The worst part was that it made him question the accuracy of the memories he _did_ manage to drag into the light.

It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with the concept of repression-as-trauma-reaction, or that he'd somehow thought himself immune to the phenomenon.

It was simply that his brain shouldn't have been _able_ to actively repress these specific memories. It shouldn't have _known_ about them. And this didn't feel like sudden, blanket denial, or any other reactionary defense mechanism kicking into gear in light of new information.

It felt _old_. And that shouldn't have been possible.

He realized he'd been standing motionless in front of the cake machine for –– he didn't know how long. He sighed, pulled the lever, and resolved to find a television show to get invested in for at least a couple hours before attempting sleep. He was spending too much time in his own head, lately; that was probably all it was. The glamour had encompassed a lot of memories and his brain was just having a hard time sorting through them all. He just needed something mindless and unimportant to concentrate on for a while, to keep from psyching himself out any worse than he already had.

When he got back to his chair, there was a letter in it. Torn parchment –– actual _parchment_ –– scrawled over in loopy, dramatic handwriting. It definitely hadn't been there before.

Robbie raised an eyebrow. "Took him long enough."

* * *

_Cousin,_

_Sticking to the family tradition of only writing when you want something, I see. Excellent. Brings a tear to my eye, truly._

_What's so important you couldn't put it in a letter? There was so much security on that thing I was expecting a death threat. Not some vague half-coded nonsense._

_I'll be there when I can. I'm a busy guy. Don't do anything too dangerous without me, I'd hate to miss the fun._

_Yours in mischief,_

_GG_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Right, right," Robbie muttered, rolling his eyes. "Silly me, trying to have conversations that aren't relevant to the plot."


	2. Chapter 2

_Cousin,_

_Your response was a pleasant surprise, less than a week from my initial message and only exasperating as opposed to infuriating. Are you feeling all right?_

_As to the nature of the situation that I was previously unwilling to elaborate on in a letter, I am, funnily enough, still unwilling to **elaborate on it in a letter**._

_Get here sooner than later if you want answers._

_Yours in not getting us both killed by openly discussing sensitive topics in writing,_

_RR_

* * *

Robbie changed his mind roughly three times a day about which aspect of this entire situation qualified for the title of The Worst Part. Sometimes, The Worst Part was that he'd had to resort to asking _Glanni_ for help. Sometimes it was the influx of brand new, fascinatingly awful and uselessly vague nightmares.

The Worst Part, currently, was the realization that talking things through with Sportacus was _actually helping_. Not even just with the practical side of things, which would have been distasteful but acceptable –– no, it was also helping him _feel better_.

What happened was: he woke up at three in the afternoon, head full of insubstantially lingering concepts like screaming and burning and _that's not a face_ and his first fully conscious thought was _Sportacus said I could call him_.

Not _Sportacus said I could call him;_ _these could be important details._

Not _Sportacus said I could call him_ _; we should hash this out before I forget completely._

Just:

 _Sportacus said I could call him_.

Followed swiftly by numb resignation: he _wanted to_.

He stared at his phone. Tried to picture how this would go. The elf, in the middle of some ridiculous game with those kids, who would all want to know why his armguard was suddenly beeping, and then either the town brats would all know Robbie had _willingly called him_ , about a _nightmare_ , or Sportadork would have to _convincingly lie to children_ and no, nope, he wasn't going to call.

Mortification and utter disdain for the prospect of –– ugh –– _accepting help_  aside, his brain was sending very clear signals about at least one thing: he was not in an okay mindset to be around people. Any people. Probably _especially_ people he'd been having a lot of confusing, conflicting _feelings_ about.

 _Of course_ , the instant he thought this, somebody knocked on the entrance hatch above. Robbie nearly jumped out of his skin; he _did_ jump out of his chair. He didn't bother checking the periscope. "Tell your––" his hands fluttered over his chest –– " _be-be-be-be-beep_ it's _overreacting_!"

"Can I come in?"

"If you _must_." He shouldn't have said that. He should have said _no_. But then the elf would have  _worried_ , and the idea was... unsettling, for reasons he didn't currently have the time or capacity to examine.

Sportacus landed in a crouch at the end of the chute, eyeing his crystal quizzically. "It sort of just... buzzed? And sent me a flash of you staring at your phone."

"It's never not going to be creepy that that thing lets you spy on people," Robbie muttered, trying to buy himself time. Time for what, he wasn't sure. An excuse, an escape –– whatever worked.

Sportacus looked at Robbie, looked at the periscope, and then _looked_ at Robbie.

"Yes, _well_ ," Robbie huffed, crossing his arms. "You're supposed to be the _good_ one."

"It only shows me people when they need my help," Sportacus pointed out quietly, mimicking his stance. (But with much better posture.)

"I... don't know about 'need,'" Robbie said, still stalling while he tried to figure out how he even wanted this interaction to go. Part of his mind was already whirring, trying to think of something to get Sportacus to _just go away_. The rest of him was becoming less sure about that course of action. "Something just... I saw ––"

Images were flashing through his mind's eye, too quickly. They fell apart, dissolved into one another, refused to stick around long enough to make _internal_ sense of, let alone find a way to articulate them to anyone else. All he could grasp were dim impressions of... _distortion_ , and crawling dread, and _utter wrongness_.

Robbie growled under his breath, sank back into his chair with his head in his hands, and waited to hear that ridiculous treadmill start up.

It didn't.

He did hear footsteps, and then could sense the elf's presence off to his right. He braced himself for some sort of well-meaning but inevitably startling physical contact, which also didn't happen.

"I know this has to be... very difficult, for you," Sportacus said, and Robbie would have taken offense at how gentle his voice was if he wasn't too busy being horrified at himself for actually finding _comfort_ in it. "I've been trying not to –– push, or overstep. I hope you know I'm not just doing this because it's –– necessary. I hope you know I care about _you_."

Oh.

The part of Robbie that looked at any form of affection and said _liar_ started a brief scuffle with the part of him that existed in a constant state of rolling its eyes at the elf's sheer, unquestionable _earnestness_. There was no clear victor and it mostly made him dizzy. "Um. Thank you...?"

Luckily, for the time being, Sportacus seemed content to do all the necessary talking. All in one nervous rush. "I can tell you get angry at yourself for not being able to remember everything, and I know –– I mean, I _think_ you were joking, about the treadmill, and me being bored, but if –– if you weren't, Robbie, I'm _really not_ , that's just. How I am. It doesn't mean I don't want to listen."

Several dozen different trains of thought were suddenly trying to leave their stations. Robbie leapt on the first one to produce a complete sentence, took a deep breath, and said, "The first thing that made me think maybe you weren't like him was your name." There was a frozen moment, and then he added, "Well? Start writing. _T_ _act_ is one thing, but this might turn out to be _important_."

He didn't dare stop to try and gather his thoughts, though. It would probably just end up scattering them. Anyway, it wasn't like Sportanerd actually had to find something to write on; he carried a notebook around in his vest all the time.

"You gave us something to call you. And it was _Sportacus_ , of all things."

"That almost sounded like a criticism, _Robbie Rotten_ ," Sportacus said, a somewhat forced if not actually unwelcome attempt at levity.

Robbie shrugged. "9 didn't even give us that. He was just... Number 9. Some of the townsfolk thought that was rude. Most of them thought it was _cool_ and _mysterious_. I was the only one who knew enough about magic to wonder if –– I mean, everyone knows you don't give out your _real_ name. Significantly fewer people stop and think about... the kind of power a _common_ name can collect over the years, if you let it become a big enough part of your identity. It's a compromise everybody makes. So I tend to be suspicious of people who _don't_."

The pencil scratching had stopped long before he finished speaking, but Sportacus waited politely until he paused before actually interrupting, because of course he did. "That... never occurred to me." He sounded _ill_. "I mean, I know about –– but I didn't think. About _him_. It was kind of... a running joke within the Order. That he was never happy with one name for very long, so everyone just used his number."

Robbie did the most sarcastic rendition of jazz hands that he could currently muster. " _Glamour_."

"I... don't think so."

"Just your average run of the mill manipulation, then. He was good at those, too." ...Wait.

Robbie opened his eyes and sat up straight, wincing as his spine popped in protest. He realized he was hugging the chair's plush orange throw pillow tight against himself and wondered when he had picked it up. "I... don't know why I said that."

"You –– you don't?" Sportacus suddenly had the most deer-in-headlights look Robbie had ever seen. It was terrifying and adorable, which was also _separately_ terrifying.

" _No_ , I –– I –– _ugh_." He clutched at the throw pillow and shook his head back and forth, trying to will the buzzing edges of memory into something more concrete. "I think he –– I _think_ ––" Gone. He jumped to his feet, ignoring the slight twinge in his left knee, and hurled the pillow at the scaffolding. "I just keep seeing _snow_!"

"Snow?"

"I mean, that much makes sense, it was _winter_ when he first showed up, but it's _all_ I'm getting! Snow and –– _snow_ and ––" _Why_ could he not just _focus_ on this?

Sportacus was suddenly _right in front of him_ , which was a bad place to be, because Robbie really, really wanted to _hit_ something. Not that hitting an elf unwarded would accomplish much besides breaking his own hand, but it was the principle of the thing. Throwing the pillow had been a mistake; half a concession that wasn't enough to actually calm him down. The frustration had reached a boiling point and he was physically shaking with the need to _break something_.

"Robbie, it's all right –– look at me ––"

"I need you to leave," Robbie managed, taking very calm, measured breaths. "Right now."

Sportacus took a step back, eyes flitting from Robbie to the crystal, which –– small mercies –– _wasn't_ sounding off. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to start throwing things."

"You already threw a pillow."

"I'm going to start throwing _heavier_ things," Robbie snapped. "And I do not require an _audience_."

"I just want to help ––"

"You did. You do. I _hate_ it, but you do." Robbie picked up the abandoned notebook and pencil and shoved both into Sportacus's hands. " _That_ was me letting you help –– _this_ is me _done_ being _helped_ for today; _please get out_."

"I –– okay, Robbie. Just, um." The elf hesitated at the exit back up to the hatch. "I meant to tell you –– I mean I was going to tell you tonight and –– then I was going to tell you earlier but I didn't want to interrupt ––"

" _Spit it out_."

"I heard back today from –– the person I wrote to, asking for help. He should be here in two days."

"That's... great," Robbie said, trying to sound sincere through gritted teeth and over the high, tuneless _noise_ in his head. "My own contact has also... replied."

"Fantastic! When do they plan to arrive?"

"Whenever he feels like it," Robbie muttered. _Get out, get out, **get out**_. "Thank you for your _help_ , please don't _worry_ about this, I can fix anything I break."

Sportacus opened his mouth to probably say something compassionate and understanding and _utterly infuriating_ , seemed to think better of it, and left without another word. Just an awkward nod of farewell. Robbie's answer was more of an involuntary twitch than an actual nod in kind.

He stood perfectly still until he heard the hatch close, and for another minute or so after that.

Then he picked up a hammer, hauled back, and threw. The nearest disguise tube shattered, showering a spray of glass down onto the scaffolding.

Robbie snapped his fingers and the destruction reversed itself before the shards had even finished falling.

 _Like snow_ , he thought hazily.

Like snow.

He picked up a wrench.

* * *

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/158957492137/deep-inhale-long-exhale-i-actually-do) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Sportacus spent most of the following afternoon trying to stay attuned to the kids' activities, instead of letting himself be _completely_ distracted waiting for a message from Robbie, telling him to stay away.

By evening, no such message had come in, which he reasoned must be as close as Robbie was willing to get to actually inviting him back.

So at half past six, he knocked on the hatch.

"Yes, come _in_ ," Robbie called up, with the air of bored exasperation that had become par for the course during this particular step of their nightly routine. Robbie always seemed amused by the fact that Sportacus still knocked at the unwarded and now pointedly un _locked_  entryway, even now that they had an agreed upon meeting time, but he never actually told him to skip it. So Sportacus never did.

Besides, the verbal invitation went a long way towards calming the angry buzzing that always started up at the base of his skull the instant he crossed that neutral-fae threshold.

Pushing open the hatch and resolutely ignoring the accompanying anxiety spike, he hauled himself in headfirst, shot out the mouth of the chute in a controlled tumble, rolled to his feet, and brushed himself off.

"Bravo," Robbie said flatly, and Sportacus laughed and took a mock bow at the sound of what he judged to be some extremely sarcastic applause.

He glanced around briefly, trying not to look like he was –– well _, looking_. Everything seemed... normal. A bit more cluttered than usual, but not in a way that suggested destruction.

Sportacus realized with a start that the place looked... _busy_. "Just wanted to mix things up a little," he said, stepping around a half-assembled... _something_ to approach the worktable Robbie was hunched over.

"Well, variety is the spice of life." Robbie's voice was still flat. It sounded a little bit _off_ from the unimpressed tone he usually affected when trying to indicate that everything going on in his general vicinity was beneath him. But only a little. Possibly he was just distracted, methodically untangling what looked to Sportacus like nothing more than a big ball of wires.

"What's that?" Sportacus asked, peering over his shoulder.

Robbie glanced up at him. "A big ball of wires."

"Oh."

"Probably still useable. I've been meaning to untangle them for, oh, six years now. You know how projects just kind of get away from you?"

"Um," said Sportacus, because no, he didn't. "Yes?"

Robbie snorted. "No, you don't."

"Well," he admitted. "No. But I understand how it could happen."

Robbie didn't reply to that. For a while he just continued pulling the wires apart, sorting them into different piles off to one side, apparently not bothered by having an audience. Unsure of what exactly was happening but not wanting to ruin whatever it was, Sportacus did his best to stand very still.

Finally Robbie straightened up from the table and, still apparently indifferent to Sportacus's presence, crossed the room to his orange chair and flopped down into it, shutting his eyes. Only then did he speak again, voice tight, words clipped. "I don't think we should do the whole –– memories thing. Tonight."

"Okay." Sportacus slowly followed Robbie's path across the room and then stood there in the middle of everything, bouncing on his feet just a bit. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to ask a follow-up question like _why_ or _did you want to do something else_ and was still trying to decide between the two (or keeping his mouth shut, which was admittedly not his strong suit) when Robbie opened his eyes and sat up.

"Yesterday," he said, haltingly. Met Sportacus's gaze very briefly and then focused on something off to his left. "I. I shouldn't have –– I should have told you to come back later. Or to –– not. I thought I could –– look, I get. Days. Where I can't deal with –– people, for one thing, including myself, but I'm always _here_ , so. I've learned to get along with me."

"I... think I understand."

"This whole... _thing_ ," Robbie continued, waving a hand vaguely, "hasn't _helped_ , but. It's not why. I just –– I didn't want you to think it was. I mean, it's –– maybe yesterday wouldn't have been as –– if not for all of _this_ , but, it also wouldn't have happened if I was –– not already me." He grimaced. "How much of that made sense? And don't try to _lie_ , it's just sad to watch."

"I think I understand," Sportacus repeated softly, studying his hands. He'd had an idea –– but it was going to sound very... silly, if he'd misinterpreted. He held up his left hand and tapped at the gloved palm. "I wouldn't have started wearing these if I hadn't –– if that hadn't happened, but it could have happened to someone else, and they might not have started wearing gloves. Is that –– sort of what you mean?"

Robbie's lips quirked into a smile for just an instant before he settled back into a more neutral expression. "Close enough."

Sportacus beamed. "Right! Well. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

Robbie gave him a blank look. "It quite literally took all day up until about two minutes ago to talk myself into not pretending yesterday didn't happen and hoping for the best. So no, I did not prepare a multitude of conversation topics. You?"

"Well..." Sportacus hesitated.

Bringing this up right now was probably a bad idea.

On the other hand, continuing to _not_ bring it up was probably a worse one.

"You know," he ventured, and one of these days he really needed to stop throwing himself into the metaphorical deep end before actually _deciding_ whether or not he felt like metaphorically _swimming_ , "we still haven't actually talked about, um..." He gestured vaguely upwards at the cavern ceiling, trying to indicate all of LazyTown. "Everyone else."

Robbie tensed up so fast his joints actually, audibly creaked. "What's there to talk about?"

"We still have to decide what to do." At Robbie's answering scoff, Sportacus stood up straighter and tried to sound –– resolute, but not demanding. "I don't like thinking about it any more than you do, but we don't really have a choice."

The temperature of the room seemed to plummet.

"What _exactly_ ," Robbie hissed, tilting his head, voice frigid, "do you mean by _that_?"

Sportacus took one unbidden step backwards and was immediately annoyed with himself for it. He was not in _danger_ here, whatever the combination of magical instincts and anxiety batting at the inside of his head wanted him to believe.

"I just mean," he said carefully, "that we can't keep putting off the discussion. That's all."

Robbie studied him for a long, uneasy moment before responding. "So you _didn't_ mean, 'we have to do the _right_ _thing_ , which is the thing I _say_ is the _r_ _ight_ _t_ _hing_ , we have no _choice_.'"

"Of course not!"

"Good." The tension in the air didn't so much dissolve as it did _snap_ , with a weak twinge of something like static electricity. Nothing deliberate: two magical beings butting heads, alarming only as an inarguable display of how seriously they had both been taking the subject.

Robbie indicated the room at large. "Floor's open. You start."

"Well..." Sportacus cleared his throat and glanced around at the very much not open floor, nervously pressing his hands back and forth to flex his wrists. "I mean, I do think they have a right to know the truth."

Robbie snorted. "Of _course_ you do. Speaking for myself, I wish I could _un_ know the parts of 'the truth'––" (finger quotes) "––that I _do_ know."

"That's... fair. But it has given you an opportunity that the rest of them don't have –– you can _do_ something about what happened. They can't."

"Opportunity," Robbie repeated, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "That's an _interesting_ pronunciation of _unending nightmare_ that I've never heard before."

Sportacus winced. "All right, it's –– also that."

"As long as _I'm_ doing this," Robbie said firmly, crossing his arms, "they don't _need_ to."

"And if we find survivors?"

Robbie said nothing. Looked away with a noncommittal hum, posture going even more rigid.

Sportacus pressed onward. "Robbie. If we find people who used to live here –– who might want to come _back_ ––"

"That's a _big_ 'if,'" Robbie cut in, setting his jaw, enunciating each word sharply. "And a long way off."

It wasn't exactly a stare-down. Sportacus could see Robbie's point. He could just also see the value in not setting a precedent by conceding too quickly.

(And it maybe... scared him, a little bit, _how_ easy it was to see the other side of this.)

Finally he nodded, and let the barest hint of a slouch into his posture: admitting defeat, for the time being. At _least_ they had finally managed a relatively calm discussion about this. "All right. We won't make any... irreversible decisions unless –– until we know more."

Robbie inclined his head minutely, and then seemed to deflate, leaning over in his chair and drumming his fingers along the edge of the arm impatiently. "So this _contact_ of yours that you mentioned yesterday, is he still showing up tomorrow?"

Oh. Right. _That_.

"Ah." Sportacus bit the inside of his mouth. This probably wasn't going to go over well, either. "Um, about that."

Robbie raised an eyebrow. "What, did he change his mind?"

"No, nothing like that, he's just –– I, um, didn't mention before because I wasn't sure if the letter would even reach him or if he'd be able to get here if it did, and then, I –– didn't explain yesterday, because. Well."

Robbie rolled his eyes. "Because I was busy having a meltdown, yes, _go on_."

"Um." Sportacus steeled himself. "He's actually sort of –– I mean not sort of, he _is_ , um –– _well_ ––"

"Just spit it out! What is he, _royalty_?"

"He's my big brother."

Watching Robbie's face as he absorbed this news was a little like watching somebody react to opening a tupperware container that had been gestating in the back of a fridge for a few weeks. "There are _more of you_?" he yelped.

Sportacus clapped a hand to his mouth to muffle a laugh. "Not exactly, but –– I have heard people refer to him as, um, among other things, 'the intense one.'"

"The _intense_ one?!"

"I... can't say I disagree."

Robbie buried his face in one hand, the other clutching at the plush fabric of his chair. "Please just _kill_ me."

"I think he'll definitely be able to help us, though!"

" _The intense one_ ," Robbie repeated in a horrified whisper, and peered briefly through his fingers at Sportacus as though to confirm the basis for comparison.

Sportacus rolled his eyes. "He's not _that_ bad."

"You just admitted he's worse than _you_!"

"I don't know what you heard, but that is _not_ what I said. Anyway, he'll be here tomorrow, so. Fair warning."

"Oh, I _see_ ," Robbie groaned, now doubled over and covering his face with both hands. "He's _not that bad_ , you just felt the need to _arbitrarily_ _warn_ _me_."

Well, at least he seemed to be enjoying throwing himself into the old, familiar theatrics. Sportacus couldn't help but grin. "He's excited to meet everybody. I've told him a lot about this place."

"If the brats ask _him_ to stay forever," Robbie grumbled, "I'm moving to _the_ _bottom_ _of the ocean and never coming back_."

"I will take that as a good night." Sportacus headed back to the chute, wondering if he could make it back to his ship (and therefore out of periscope range) before he started really laughing. Probably not. "See you tomorrow, Robbie!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: wow we sure do have a lot of plot points to hit
> 
> The Boys: [fraught, veiled conversation about mental health]
> 
> me: uh guys
> 
> The Boys: [banter]
> 
> me: guys,,, the plot,,,,,,,,,,,
> 
> anyway next chapter i promise we get oUT OF THE LAIR, GOOD GRIEF


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading, and thank you especially for all your wonderful comments! <3 Sorry this one took so long! The updates might slow down a bit from here on out, but rest assured they'll keep appearing.

"Hi, Robbie!"

Robbie spared a glance away from his binoculars to the child he'd been pretending not to notice sneak up on him. "Hello, Pinkie."

She wrinkled her nose at him. " _Stephanie_."

"Whatever." He went back to scanning the skies. Maybe if he ignored her, she'd go away.

Instead of getting bored and wandering off like any child logically _should_ , she hopped up on the wall he was leaning against, swinging her legs. "Sooo," she began, "are you excited to meet Sportacus's brother, too?"

" _No_."

"Then why are you looking for him?"

Robbie wrenched the binoculars away from his face, sputtering indignantly. "I'm not looking for _him_! I'm –– I'm –– _birdwatching_."

"Oh!" Stephanie jumped to her feet on the wall, hands on her hips. "Well, _that's_ good, because I was _going_ to say if you _were_ looking for him, you weren't doing a very good job."

"Well, seeing as I am _not_ looking for –– what do you mean."

Standing on the wall, the child was tall enough to reach his shoulder. Feeling generous, he allowed her to spin him around.

And promptly dropped the binoculars, staring in dismay at the fast-approaching... hot air balloon?

"...Oh."

Stephanie giggled. "Well," she said, jumping nimbly to the ground, "I'll let you get back to your birdwatching. Since you weren't waiting to meet him, or anything."

"You do that," Robbie grumbled, waiting until she was out of his line of sight to retrieve (and magically repair) the binoculars.

"Let's see what fresh hell I'm up against _now_ ," he muttered, peering through them in an attempt to glimpse the pilot of the bizarre craft.

Then he burst out laughing.

* * *

"Look at the size of that balloon!"

"I bet I could hit it from here!"

"Trixie!"

"I _won't_ , but I _could_."

"I've _got_ to know how that works!"

" _I_ want a hot air balloon!"

In the midst of a gaggle of ecstatic children, it was almost too easy to ignore the true nature of the situation and just... be happy to see his brother.

Actually –– Sportacus decided, on the whole, it probably wouldn't hurt to allow himself that much. If nothing else, it would make it easier to act normal around the kids.

"Look out below!"

Nameless emotion surged at the familiar voice, and Sportacus bit his tongue and corralled the children safely out of the way of falling sandbags.

Then there was a blur of motion and he was being _tackled_.

"Sport!"

"Íþrótt!" Sportacus laughed, returning the hug and then instinctively twisting away and springing to his feet when Íþrótt tried to turn it into a headlock.

Íþrótt grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Glad to see you haven't gotten rusty."

"Sportacus? Rusty? _Never_!" Ziggy piped up loyally. "He's _always_ moving, and always saving us!"

"Of course he is!" Íþrótt said instantly, and Sportacus smothered a self-conscious laugh at the undisguised pride in his brother's voice. "I would expect no less! You must be Ziggy."

"Wow! How'd you know _that_?"

Sportacus staggered as there was suddenly an arm around his shoulders, shaking him in an affectionate if somewhat overzealous manner. "You think I don't keep in touch with my own brother?" Íþrótt said, mock indignant. "He has told me much about all of you! Let me see if I can guess the rest ––"

" _Me_ first!"

The brothers shared a look, which Sportacus had to quickly break away from, in serious danger of a traitorous giggling fit as Íþrótt pretended to think.

"Hmm... Could you, perhaps, be Stingy?"

Stingy gasped. "That's _right_!"

Íþrótt nodded, and glanced between the other children, face a picture of honest concentration. "I _think_ the one examining my aircraft with such fascination must be Pixel, the one eyeing the sandbag ropes like she is wondering if they can be untied is Trixie, the one bouncing on her feet is Stephanie, and the one hiding behind a tree over there is Robbie Rotten."

"I am _not_!" said the tree.

"And I am Íþróttaálfurinn," Íþrótt continued, not missing a beat. "Please, call me Íþrótt."

The children chorused the nickname gleefully. There was a scoff from the general direction of the tree.

"How long are you staying?" Stephanie asked.

"Ah. _W_ _ell_." Íþrótt let go of Sportacus's shoulder and clapped him on the back, nearly sending him crashing to his knees. "I'm not exactly sure! It has been too long since I've seen my brother, and I would like to get to know everyone here! For now, let us just say that I will stay until I need to leave, or until you get tired of me."

Another explosion of excited ideas and questions. Ziggy's voice rose easily above the rest. "How _come_ you haven't seen each other in so long?"

"Well, our jobs keep us very busy," Íþrótt explained, and Sportacus winced, already trying to come up with deflections for the questions this would inevitably lead to about just _what_ Íþrótt's job was.

"Are you one of the numbered heroes like Sportacus?" Stephanie asked.

Íþrótt chuckled. "Numbered heroes, huh? Well, I used to be. In fact, I used to be Number 10 myself!"

"Wow!" Ziggy was practically jumping up and down in excitement. "Oh –– so, wait, why isn't Sportacus Number 11, then?"

"Well," Íþrótt said, stretching backwards and transitioning into a handstand without seeming to actually notice, "when I retired, I passed the number down to him."

" _Retired_?" Trixie rocked back on her heels, looking Íþrótt up and down critically. "You don't look _old_ enough to retire."

"He means he got bored," Sportacus stage whispered.

"True," Íþrótt admitted, shrugging one hand while balancing on the other. "So I taught Sport here everything I knew and then went off and found something more dangerous to ––"

Sportacus shoved him over sideways, but the damage was done.

"More dangerous?" Pixel asked, eyes wide. "Like what?"

"Íþrótt does a job very similar to mine," Sportacus said quickly, before his brother could answer. "But in a place with more and... bigger problems than here."

"Like MayhemTown?" Stingy guessed.

"Yes," Sportacus said, over Íþrótt's sudden bark of laughter. "Like MayhemTown."

"So ––" said Ziggy, looking between the two of them eagerly, "so _you_ taught Sportacus how to do all the things he does?"

Sportacus grinned. "Yep!"

"Well, not _all_ of it," Íþrótt said. "I'm sure he's picked up a _few_ things on his own. _But_ ," he added, and leaned in towards the circle of children conspiratorially, "I _did_ practically raise him. I could tell you _so_ many stories."

"Tell us!" Trixie demanded.

" _Or_ ," Sportacus said loudly, "we could all play a game?"

"Stories first," Trixie insisted, and Pixel and Stingy nodded along eagerly.

"But how come your _brother_ raised you and not your parents?" Ziggy asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

" _Ziggy_ ," Stephanie hissed, "you can't just _ask_ someone that!"

"It's all right," Sportacus assured her. "Though Stephanie is right, Ziggy, you should be careful about asking that kind of question."

"Sorry!"

"It's fine." He glanced at his amused brother and then around at the crowd of expectant faces, wondering how best to quickly explain this to a group of human children without painting his parents in a negative light. "Actually, it's very common for elves to raise their younger siblings, if they have any at all."

Ziggy frowned. "Why?"

"Well ––"

"Because elves take twice as long as humans do to _grow_ _up_." At the new voice, everyone looked over to see Robbie leaning casually against the tree he'd been hiding behind. "And most parents don't want to deal with that more than _once_." He strode over to join the group, rolling his eyes at the requisite chorus:

" _Robbie_ _Rotten_!"

"Oh, that _guy_!"

"Yes, _yes_ , you all knew I was _there_."

"Wait," said Ziggy, now staring at Sportacus. "So... do elves _live_ twice as long as humans do?"

"Well––"

"I heard it's like dog years," Stingy said. "But in reverse. You know, one year for an elf is seven years for a human?"

"I thought it was one to four?" Stephanie said, frowning.

Trixie shook her head. " _I_ heard three."

"Guys," said Pixel, laughing, "that's not –– that's not how it works. At all."

"Well," Robbie said loudly, "as much _entertainment_  as I'm sure we'd all get out of comparing _lifespans_ , I did come over here for a _reason_."

"To introduce yourself?" Stephanie prompted.

Robbie stared at her. "...No. I was simply wondering if you could all stop making so much _noise_. However, since I am already _here_..."

He turned to Íþrótt, looked him in the eye, and stuck out a hand. "Robbie Rotten. Though apparently you already knew that. Íþróttaálfurinn, was it? I do admire a family that sticks to a theme."

Íþrótt was giving Robbie an... _odd_ look. Sportacus found himself holding his breath, waiting for his brother to reciprocate the handshake –– could he tell Robbie was part fae? Was that it? Surely that wouldn't  _matter_ to him?

"Sorry," Íþrótt said at last, seeming to realize he'd been staring. He took Robbie's hand. "You... look familiar."

Robbie raised an eyebrow. "I'd say I just have one of those faces, but I refuse to sell myself short like that." He pulled his hand away with a wince and shook it out. "Perhaps you've seen reports of my _highly_ successful villainous exploits?"

"...Perhaps."

"Anyway!" Robbie let his gaze roam disdainfully over the lot of them. " _I_ _'m_ going home. Have... _fun_ , or. Whatever."

"Robbie, wait!" Stephanie called, racing after him. The other children followed, a chatter of voices all trying to talk Robbie into joining them.

In the unexpected moment of respite from their audience, Sportacus met his brother's gaze and saw the worry there.

"So," Íþrótt said quietly. "There, ah. Sure is one hell of a glamour hanging over this place."

In the mild, late summer air there was a sudden, biting chill. Sportacus nodded, fighting off a shiver.

"Is that what you wanted my help with?"

Sportacus glanced over his shoulder. Robbie was still storming away, but hadn't actually sent the kids running back yet. "Not... exactly. Robbie and I are already free of it, but there's –– I... I'm sorry, I can't really tell you anything else until we get you out of it, too."

"Tomorrow, then." Íþrótt seemed entirely unfazed by the prospect of an unanticipated glamour break in his immediate future. He put a hand on Sportacus's shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"Me?" Sportacus blinked. "Um. I'm fine?"

"Sportacus." Íþrótt was giving him an unnervingly serious look. "This kind of thing is –– so far beyond your job description. Glamours of this magnitude ––"

"Don't think about it," Sportacus said sharply. "It –– sorry, just, its thrall reinforcements are a bit. Overactive."

The hand on his shoulder tightened. "Please tell me you didn't find that out the hard way."

"Um."

Íþrótt recoiled, horrified. " _Sport_."

"It's fine! It's –– I'm fine."

"It could have _killed_ you!" Íþrótt hissed, beginning to circle him, looking him frantically up and down as though searching for signs of injury. Sportacus was suddenly extremely aware of his gloves, and hoped it wouldn't occur to Íþrótt to ask when he'd started wearing them.

"It ––" _almost did_ _kill me_ –– "It _didn't_ , I'm really –– I'm _fine_." ...Mostly because of Robbie, but the extent of Robbie's magical aptitude was not his secret to tell.

Íþrótt still looked pained. "Sportacus––"

"The children are coming back," Sportacus pointed out. "We can talk later."

"Íþrótt, do you know anything about human sports?" Ziggy called, running up and promptly tripping over the soccer ball he was dribbling.

"Of course!" Íþrótt laughed, distress evaporating as he righted the boy and brushed him off. "So," he said, with a familiar glint in his eye, "we're playing soccer, huh?"

" _Brother_ ," Sportacus murmured in elvish, suddenly very, _very_ worried. " _Please_ _go_ _easy_ _on_ _them_."

Íþrótt just grinned. " _Then how will they learn?_ All right, kids, whoever gets _this_ ball away from _everyone else_ gets to be the first captain and pick their team!"

"Usually they just take turns ––" Sportacus protested, but Íþrótt waved him off.

"Nonsense!" He picked up the soccer ball and punted it straight up into the air, where it quickly dissolved into a speck before vanishing completely.

There was a long, tense pause.

Then the ball came plummeting back to earth and five children dove on it, elbowing and shrieking.

"...Hm." Íþrótt scratched the back of his neck. "You know, maybe I'm a little out of practice at interacting with human children."

Sportacus buried his face in his hands.

* * *

Robbie launched himself at his desk, yanking the drawers out one by one and tearing through them until he finally found a piece of paper and a pen.

He wrote:

_Cousin,_

_an elf just showed up and said I look familiar, what did you do_

_if you take a week to reply to this I will kill you_

_RR_

He muttered a few quick security measures and then snapped his fingers, sending the missive on its way.

Moments later, it reappeared, fluttering down out of thin air. Robbie snatched it before it could land, turned it over, and read:

_Cousin,_

_I greatly resent the implication, and am amused by your assumption that you **could** kill me._

_Incidentally, was he wearing a vest with abs on it_

_GG_

Growling under his breath, Robbie fished out another piece of paper and scribbled across it in large, heavy script:

_WHAT DID YOU DO._

He sent it unsigned, unaddressed, and unprotected, figuring Glanni probably received enough messages of a similar nature that anyone bothering to spy on him wouldn't pay it much mind.

The reply this time was nearly instantaneous:

_I'll be there tomorrow._

* * *

 

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156377728357/glanni-isnt-even-there-yet-and-already) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

_[Art](http://pandemi-doodles.tumblr.com/post/156704807509/another-scene-from-defectivevortas-catch-your) (full comic at link) by [Pandemi-Doodles](http://pandemi-doodles.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eta: d efinitely mixed up dropkicking and punting, thank you [Chipndaaale](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9183037/comments/89491145) for questioning the logistics which prompted me to go "...oh shit is that not-" and google it


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all as ever for the feedback! <3
> 
> Also, I am posting this using my phone as a data hotspot after a ten hour power outage, so if there are any blatant canon contradictions, this is now just... an AU Where The Playground / The Lair Looks Like This l o l.
> 
>  **ETA:** aaahaha i am not cut out for ongoing WIP posting, i've already changed a kind of significant thing. it's in the end notes bc chapter spoilers.
> 
> Double ETA: ...The Lair actually. does look a bit different in this AU, which is a fact I completely forgot about and am still searching for a way to describe that isn't shoehorned in.

Sportacus had never had trouble keeping up with five children. Quite the opposite –– he'd often had to remind himself to slow down, hold back, avoid putting dangerous ideas in their heads. He sometimes wondered, guiltily, just how successful he really was in this endeavor.

Now he had an answer: much more successful than Íþrótt.

"Stephanie, please be careful up th–– _Pixel_ , are you _still_ doing sit-ups?! You're going to strain somethi–– Ziggy, _no_!"

He dove across the playground just in time to catch Ziggy, mid backwards-leap from the top of the slide. Íþrótt was closer, but he was busy spotting Stephanie, who was walking along the top of the swing set.

"Wow, Stephanie!" Ziggy crowed, springing to his feet and scampering over to the swings with a quick _thank-you-Sportacus!_ thrown over his shoulder. "This is just like that time with the high wire! Well, I mean, except you _fell_ off the high wire, but –– but you're not gonna fall! Forget I said anything! Don't think about falling!"

Stephanie just giggled. She looked steady enough, and Sportacus figured he could trust his brother to keep an eye on her for the time being. He glanced around, surveying the others.

Trixie and Stingy were treating the teeter-totter as yet another balance beam –– except each of them was trying to claim it as their own, and they seemed, collectively, to have very little working knowledge of concepts like _counterbalance_. Sportacus reached them just in time to prevent wobbly disaster. "Maybe try _actually_ seesawing?" he suggested, settling them safely on the ground and knowing perfectly well that they were more likely to decide the thing was a siege weapon next.

Meanwhile, Pixel had rolled over on his side in the grass, poking at some sort of handheld game and looking vaguely ill.

"You all right, Pixel?"

"Stomach hurts. I'm taking a break from sit-ups and... practicing lie- _downs_ instead."

"That's a good idea. Here ––" He tossed him a water bottle. "Don't overdo it."

Pixel glanced briefly away from his screen. "Thanks."

Sportacus dragged a hand through his hair, knocking his hat askew. That was –– that was everybody accounted for, right? Yes. Definitely. Unless the kitten showed up. Again.

Now that he had a moment to stop and think, he realized this was actually... the most peaceful things had been all day. No one was jumping out of trees, or trying to scale gutters up to rooftops, or forming a tower of children to inspect the basket of Íþrótt's hot air balloon. Everyone was in the same place, and the crystal was finally quiet. _Maybe_ the kids were tiring out.

He checked the time on his armguard: nearly 6 o'clock.

The three of them definitely needed to talk. Tonight.

Which meant he _really_ needed to talk to Robbie first, alone, and _soon_.

Mind made up, he tugged his hat back into place and approached the swing set. "Good job, Stephanie! Please be careful! Íþrótt," he added, keeping his voice at a normal, conversational volume but shielding it from human ears. "There is something I need to discuss with Robbie. Can you keep the children occupied for –– a few minutes?"

Íþrótt hummed a laugh –– also shielding his voice. "I think I can handle that, yes."

Sportacus reconsidered. And rephrased. "...Can you keep them _safely_ occupied?"

"You _know_ ," Íþrótt said, rolling his eyes, "I did manage to keep _you_ alive. For significantly longer than a few minutes."

"There are five of them," Sportacus pointed out.

"Yes, and together they might get into _one_ fifth of the _trouble_ you did."

"At least I could only run off in one direction at––"

There was a sudden yelp, and then a squeak, and in the split second that it took Sportacus to recognize it as the sound of a shoe slipping against metal, Íþrótt had caught Stephanie.

"Full marks for style," he informed her, setting her down and patting her on the head.

"Are you okay?" Sportacus asked, because Stephanie looked torn between amusement and delayed fear. He shoved the dull, pounding _guilt_ to the back of his mind where it would presumably just shuffle into place on the exponentially increasing list of all the factors keeping him distracted lately: he couldn't _believe_ he hadn't been paying enough attention to catch her himself.

"Y–yeah, I'm fine!" she said, brushing herself off. "Thanks," she added to Íþrótt, and skipped over to join Ziggy on the jungle gym.

Íþrótt punched Sportacus lightly (or at least what he probably _thought_ qualified as _lightly_ ) on the shoulder. "See? I've got this."

"Ow," Sportacus said flatly, and then cracked an involuntary smile. Old, running joke. He'd nearly forgotten.

" _Go_ ," Íþrótt insisted, shoving him sideways. "I'm glad to see you taking your responsibilities here so seriously, but I can keep a lid on things for five minutes, okay? Go see Robbie."

Oh.

Oh no.

New distraction: _terror_. He _recognized_ that tone in his brother's voice on the last sentence. It had bypassed amusement and gone straight into _mirth_ , after a quick pitstop to pick up some malevolence.

A quick glance at Íþrótt's face confirmed his fears: yes, there was the _smirk_.

Sportacus sighed. "Don't even _start_ ," he warned, and handspringed away without waiting for a response.

He wasn't quite fast enough to escape the sound of his brother's laughter.

* * *

So far the television was doing an absolutely miserable job of keeping Robbie's mind off of things.

Which things? Any things. Literally any of the topics that currently warranted thinking about –– he wanted nothing to do with them.

The TV droned on and completely failed to distract him, promisingly terrible infomercials drowned out instead by _do I tell them about Glanni_ and _do I warn Glanni about the glamour_ and _**how**_ _do I warn Glanni about the glamour_ and _I bet_ _Íþróttaálfurinn_ _never had to give anybody the shovel talk look at him he is a_ _ **living embodiment of the shovel talk**_ _and I've nearly killed his brother twice in the past month alone_ and _**stop**_ _thinking about_ _Sportadoof_ _ **just stop it**_ ––

–– all tinged at the edges with the ever present thought, not quite an image, not quite a word, not quite a solid articulation of any kind, just a damnably useless _concept_ :

snow.

He wondered how much worse he'd be doing if it was _winter_.

...Then he wondered if seeing actual snow might help jog his memory. He was sure he had a weather machine around here somewhere.

The sudden knocking at the entrance hatch was so frantic that he actually bothered to check the periscope, half expecting some kind of ridiculous emergency. (Like five panicked children, who maybe hadn't _consciously_ realized that their friend and protector had been _poisoned_ , was _dying_ , but whose instincts were good enough that they knew to be scared –– _stop it_.)

It was just Sportacus, standing outside on the ladder, with a very harassed look on his face. He waved at the periscope with a grimace that was probably meant to have been a smile. "Can I come in?"

"Um." This wasn't how the exchange was supposed to go, but Robbie was feeling very thrown off. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

Sportacus shot out of the chute feet-first, dragging his heels to slow himself and somehow managing to keep his balance. Then he promptly ruined the effect by sitting down on the floor and burying his face in his hands. "My brother," he said, "is going to be the death of me."

Ah. So _that_ explained it. Robbie settled on the armrest of his chair and _grinned_. "What did he do?"

What little he could see of the elf's face turned bright red. "He –– n–nothing, it doesn't matter."

"Well, now I'm _intrigued_."

"He's just –– a very dangerous influence on the children, that's all."

Which was an outright lie, and a typically _bad_ one at that. Robbie rolled his eyes. "Right. So you decided to leave him alone with them?"

"...Well." Sportacus dropped his hands from his face, let out a breath, and got to his feet. "Actually, yes. I –– there's something I should –– there's something you need to be aware of, before the three of us meet tonight."

"Oh, good," Robbie said dryly, dropping off the armrest into the chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "More secrets."

* * *

_[Art](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/post/156039629954/full-on-nostalgia-bomb-and-the-amazing-writing-of) by [Fisheeart](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

"Not exactly a secret," Sportacus said, rocking back on his heels. "Just, um. Something I haven't –– gotten around to mentioning."

"The last thing you didn't get around to mentioning was the existence of your own brother. Please tell me you don't have another one." _Hypocrite_ , Robbie thought, and bit his tongue.

Sportacus laughed, but it was forced. Nervous. "No, nothing like that. It's just –– if, um, if we meet _here_ , Íþrótt will... probably be able to tell. That you're part fae."

Robbie blinked. Inasmuch as he'd been expecting anything, it hadn't been... _that_. "He doesn't already?"

Sportacus frowned. "I –– no, I don't think so?"

"You didn't _tell_ him?"

"You told me to keep my mouth shut about it."

"...That does sound like me," Robbie admitted, waiting for the haphazard riptide that was his memory lately to provide the necessary context. In the meantime, there was something else that didn't make sense. "What does my _lair_ have to do with anything?"

"Um." Sportacus was staring down at his hands, pulling at his gloves. "There's just –– a feeling? That this place –– belongs to you. I mean, really _Belongs_. It's different from –– wards, or any other sort of deliberate magic that a human might use. It's –– you're a magical being, and this place is _yours_ , and that... shows."

Robbie stared at him. "This is... news to me," he said, trying to give himself time to think. Think and not panic.

He had undone all the wards on this place years ago, had made sure to remove all traces of them (because it terrified him, and it _shouldn't_ _have_ , there was _nothing_ _to_ _be_ _afraid_ _of_ , not anymore), had sealed off all the tunnels that led to the forest, double and triple checked to make sure that there was absolutely nothing left that might suggest: _a magical being lives here and does not appreciate visitors_.

Of course he knew individual homes could become miniature Territories. He had spent most of his childhood in and out of dwellings and businesses belonging to all manner of beings, had learned to brush off the pricklings of unease, doubled by the wards that everyone used in the city. It had simply never occurred to him that _he_ might be capable of unconsciously exerting that level of –– he  _barely_ had to work to keep his magic hidden _on his person_ , so he had logically assumed –– not even assumed, he hadn't even considered the _possibility_ that his _lair_ , unwarded, might hold that kind of power.

He had certainly never felt any sort of _magical_ connection to it, or at least –– nothing stronger than he assumed most people had with their homes. He was _comfortable_ here, yes, or at least as close to comfortable as he was capable of getting under any circumstances. Was that not just... normal?

The idea that he could have missed something so obvious was... disturbing. What _else_ had he ––

And then: Riptide. Memory. Context.

Robbie stood up. "You were down here _plenty_ of times before I told you what –– before I _told_ you." He tried not to make it sound like an accusation. Even if he wasn't sure it _wasn't_ one. At any rate, he was grateful for the distraction from his previous train of thought.

Sportacus just shrugged, still not looking at him. "I'd always had –– a feeling? Of being –– um, well, a feeling, anyway. I just couldn't place it, I figured it was just –– you know, _magic_. But Íþrótt is more attuned to these things."

Robbie barely listened to most of this, having zeroed in on that moment of hesitation. "What kind of _feeling_?" he demanded, pushing down panic, because he already knew the answer.

Sportacus swallowed. "Um –– well –– not that I'm... _unwelcome_ , exactly, just... out of place? I think it's just that this –– registers as Fae Territory, so, as long as I'm here with permission, everything is _fine_ , it's just –– um, your magic and my magic kind of stand around looking at their watches and waiting for me to leave."

Robbie realized he was clenching his hands into fists, and forcibly relaxed them. "And you didn't mention this _because_?"

Sportacus took a deep breath. "Because what we're doing has got to be extremely taxing for you, emotionally and psychologically, and at least here you can feel at _home_. And it's –– really not a big deal."

"Not a big _deal_." Robbie was really –– _trying_ not to glare, or _seethe_ , he did not _want_ to be angry about this, anger was _not_ the logical response. " _Right_. I'm sure spending at least an hour a day in _Fae_ _Territory_ is doing wonders for _your_ psyche after what –– happened." _After what I did._

"It's –– I mean –– I'm ––"

"Yes, please _do_ keep trying to lie, it's adorable." Robbie stalked over to the fringes of one of his work areas, dragging a cardboard box out from under a table and ignoring the elf's affronted squawk of protest. "Did it never occur to you that we could maybe find a _compromise_?"

A beat of very embarrassed silence.

"I..." Sportacus cleared his throat. "I guess it... didn't. Um. No."

"You have a _serious_ hero complex," Robbie muttered, still digging through the box. Ah –– there.

He tossed the translucent loop of tubing to Sportacus, who caught it, because of course he did, and then promptly _dropped_ it, which at least gave Robbie a much-needed laugh.

"What... _was_ that?" Sportacus asked, crouching down and staring at the seemingly innocuous hoop.

"Basic magic shielding," Robbie said, kicking the box back under the table and crossing the room to stand in front of the elf, arms crossed. "It's an old prototype from –– well, you know when from. It's not perfect, but funnily enough I don't have a bunch of anti-fae _wards_ sitting around. I'll figure something out. In the meantime, _I_ don't know, see if it'll fit over your _clearly_ _inflated_ _head_ or someth –– or that. Sure. Whatever."

Sportacus had slipped it over his arm, and was now spinning it round and round like some sort of terrible _exercise_ _hoop_. Wonderful.

Robbie craned his head back, staring up at the cavernous ceiling like it could somehow save him from this.

The ceiling did nothing. Couldn't even be bothered to conveniently cave in.

Very slowly, Robbie looked back down, and returned his attention to the matter at –– no, no, there were entirely too _many_ matters at hand. He picked one of them and took a deep breath. "As for your brother finding out, I don't _care_. There are bigger things to worry about, and this is still the easiest place to meet without drawing attention to ourselves –– I'm guessing he won't _enjoy_ spending time here any more than you apparently do, but he's welcome to it."

"Well, thanks," said Íþróttaálfurinn, climbing out of the television set.

It was suddenly a very good thing that Sportacus _wasn't_ wearing any specifically anti-fae wards.

" _Íþrótt_ ," he hissed, over the top of Robbie's head. "You can't just keep _doing_ that to people."

Íþróttaálfurinn sprang to his feet via some sort of backwards, one-handed, show-offy –– _move_ , and brushed himself off, looking the exact opposite of duly chastised. "Pixel thought it was fascinating."

"Pixel is a _menace_ ," Robbie snarled, willing himself to let go of Sportacus's shirtfront and not having much luck.

"A visionary," Íþróttaálfurinn said cheerfully.

Robbie felt himself being lowered to the ground, and glared down at his legs, lest they betray him. Luckily, they seemed to get the hint.

* * *

_[Art](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/155902641167/haaha-i-made-it-way-more-dramatic-than-it-was) by [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *

"Pixel is a perfectly nice boy," Sportacus said, patting Robbie's arm before rounding on his brother, "and regardless of his reaction, you _should not_ have jumped out of his –– tiny video game... screen... _thing_. Or Robbie's television! It's just _rude_."

Increasingly aware that the situation was well and truly getting away from him, Robbie drew himself up to his full height and demanded with as much authority and as little terrified squeaking as possible, "What were you even _doing_ in there?"

"Funny you should ask!" Íþróttaálfurinn was now pinging around the room, examining everything from the disguise tubes to the periscope to the odds and ends of scrap metal and wires, peering intently at each object for about half a second before bouncing to the next.

Robbie glanced at Sportacus, and suddenly the two of them were sharing an exasperated, long-suffering _look_ of complete understanding. Robbie shuddered. How bizarre.

"There I was," Íþróttaálfurinn said, tapping experimentally at a couple of keys on the pipe organ and then raising his voice over the resulting clash of notes, "minding my own business, responsibly keeping an eye on the children, thinking about the faint traces of fae magic I'd been picking up on all day, and wondering if it was just a coincidence that my brother had run off in the direction they seemed to be coming from –– and I suddenly felt the strangest thing! The unmistakeable feeling of tacit consent to _enter_ the Territory –– so, of course, I did! And then you were kind enough to give an actual, verbal invitation, and I figured, _well_ , it would be _so_ _terribly rude_ to say no to such a thing!"

At which point he was, quite suddenly, behind Sportacus, patting him on the shoulder with apparently enough force to send him stumbling forward and _straight into Robbie_ , who absolutely did not panic and shove him away, only by dint of instead panicking and completely locking up, unable to move.

Sportacus solved the problem by shoving _himself_ away and mouthing a silent, frantic apology, face positively scarlet. Robbie still felt frozen to the spot.

Íþróttaálfurinn rocked back on his heels with his hands behind his back, beaming at the two of them. "So! What are we talking about?"

"Íþrótt," Sportacus said, and then stopped and cleared his throat and said it again without the squeak. " _Íþrótt_. Go back to the part where you were _responsibly_ watching the children –– did you happen to responsibly find _another_ adult to watch them before you left?"

Íþróttaálfurinn waved a hand dismissively. "I'm sure they're fine, four out of the five of them had their feet on the ground when I left."

Sportacus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You left them alone."

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes. "For two minutes! What's the worst that could happen?"

Which was, of course, when the crystal went off.

Sportacus groaned. "Ziggy is stuck in another _tree_. Look, I'll –– I'll be right back, just please ––" He looked miserably back and forth between his brother and Robbie. "Don't –– _kill_ each other?"

Then he rounded more fully on Íþróttaálfurinn, jabbing a finger emphatically at his face and glaring. "And _you_ –– don't –– _just_ –– just, _don't_."

And then he was up the chute, and gone.

"What did he mean by that?" Robbie said weakly, because he had the horrifying feeling that if he _didn't_ get his foot in the door and speak _first_ , Íþróttaálfurinn was going to say something like _so what are your intentions towards my brother?_

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed. "Oh, he's just afraid I'll embarrass him more than I already have. So! Fae, huh?"

"Wha–– um. Yes. Fae. ...Ish."

Íþróttaálfurinn nodded, still grinning broadly at him. "You hide it very well! I didn't sense it at all when we met earlier, it's just this place."

"Yes, well." Robbie floundered, completely at a loss. He was starting to get a surreal, disconnected feeling, like reality had briefly malfunctioned and would be back with him shortly. "I've had a lot of practice."

"I did suspect you might have some sort of –– well, _something_ , when Sport mentioned that both of you had broken free of the glamour."

A spark of annoyance. Robbie latched onto it: it felt blessedly real. "Of course. No mere _human_ could possibly manage _that_ , is that it?"

A blank look crossed Íþróttaálfurinn's face, followed swiftly by an abashed grimace. It was equal parts strange and vindicating to see. He held up both hands and bowed, just slightly. "Apologies. I meant no disrespect."

Robbie rolled his eyes. "Whatever." Sustaining anger wasn't worth the energy. "It's fine."

He expected the immediate return of that irritating grin, but Íþróttaálfurinn was now regarding him with an eerie solemnity. Standing perfectly still, arms crossed, face unreadable. "There is something I wanted to ask you," he said quietly.

Robbie forced himself not to take an involuntary step back. "Uh. Go for it."

"Sportacus mentioned setting off the glamour's thrall reinforcements."

Oh. _That_ little misadventure.

"I don't want you to think that I am underestimating my brother –– I know what he is capable of. But..." Íþróttaálfurinn looked away. Swallowed. "An accidental glamour break with –– limited training, no plan, no specialized equipment... That's how you wind up _very dead_." He snapped his gaze back to Robbie, who found himself unable to look away. "But he's not. I have a funny feeling you had something to do with that."

Robbie opened his mouth and couldn't get any sounds to come out.

What could he _say_? Yes, sure, I did, _technically_ speaking, save his life, but the reason he was so susceptible to the defenses in the first place is that I _accidentally poisoned him_? By the way, I tried to _kill him in the woods_ a couple weeks later? Just over a week ago _now_ , in fact? Welcome to the neighborhood, please don't violently dismember me?

Apparently the elf was taking his silence as some sort of noble, _humble_ confirmation of heroic deeds, because he suddenly found himself in the grip of another _painfully_ sincere handshake.

" _Thank_ you," said Íþróttaálfurinn, voice still unnervingly quiet.

"...Um," said Robbie. " _Yep_. Surrrre thing. Any –– any time."

The smirk that broke out across the elf's face was almost a relief.

Almost.

Íþróttaálfurinn tilted his head. "It's nice to know that my brother has made such a good... friend."

What would the elf _do_ , Robbie wondered, if he just walked over to a wall and started bashing his head against it? Would he try to stop him? Tell him there were easier ways to remodel? Or just let him get on with it?

* * *

 

_[Art](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/post/156039629954/full-on-nostalgia-bomb-and-the-amazing-writing-of) by [Fisheeart](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

There was a knock on the hatch. "Can I ––"

" _Get down here_!" Robbie yelped.

Íþróttaálfurinn made no attempt whatsoever to hide his laughter.

Sportacus slid into the room looking alarmingly world-weary, and cast a worried gaze back and forth between the two of them. "Íþrótt, what did you –– no, you know what,  _Robbie_ , what did he say?"

"Nothing," Robbie said, voice coming out strangled. " _Nothing_ _at_ _all_ , welcome back, let's move on!"

"Yes," said Íþróttaálfurinn. "Let's." And oh, good, he'd gone from terrifyingly jocular back to terrifyingly serious again. "I've changed my mind. No point in waiting until tomorrow."

Sportacus stood up straighter, eyes wide. "Íþrótt, that's not –– I mean, you just got here, it was a long journey, shouldn't you at least _rest_?"

"I will rest _better_ ," Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly, "knowing that I am not the only one out of the loop. Not to mention it would be nice to not worry about accidentally thinking too hard about something and –– _wham_."

Then both of them turned to _Robbie_ , like he was supposed to be the tiebreaker.

 _Someone save me from these_ _**elves**_ _._

"He does... have a point," he said, reluctantly, and refusing to look at either of them. "The longer he waits around knowing there _is_ a glamour, the higher that risk gets."

"You waited two weeks!" Sportacus protested.

At this, Robbie did look up. "Yes," he said flatly, "but I have this thing called _impulse control_."

Íþróttaálfurinn snorted. "He's got us there, Sport."

Sportacus looked unhappily between the two of them, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, and then finally threw up his hands. " _Fine_. We should at _least_ get aboveground first."

"Well, yeah." Íþróttaáalfurinn hummed in amusement. "I mean, I do _prefer_ to do these things on neutral ground, when given the choice. Mind you, I'm often _not_."

Sportacus actually clapped his hands over his ears. "I can't _hear this_."

Íþróttaálfurinn patted him on the back, already heading towards the chute. "Relax, kiddo, I know what I'm doing."

"Don't call me that," Sportacus muttered, trailing behind him and then pausing. "Robbie, you coming?"

"You head up." Robbie was eyeing the box he had found the shield in earlier. "I'm just going to see what I have lying around that might be useful."

Which was at least _half_ of the truth.

He was just _also_ going to stand here, in what was apparently his _Territory_ , and wait until his nerves had settled enough that he could be fairly certain of performing a basic incantation without setting all three of them on _fire_.

Once both of the elves had disappeared up the chute, he dragged the box back out from under the table, kicked it sharply, and sighed.

Impulse control.

Right.

* * *

_[Art](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/post/156039629954/full-on-nostalgia-bomb-and-the-amazing-writing-of) by [Fisheeart](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sport. buddy. you have actively aided these children in pulling off much more dangerous stunts than those playground antics. cut your brother some slack, you are just [#Stressed™](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156101019502/some-warm-up-sketches-more-generally-inspired-by)
> 
> a l s o, you may be wondering: did Íþrótt put together Sport's feelings for Robbie during the like 2 minutes that he witnessed them interacting when he first showed up? the answer, of course, is no. he did not _need_ those 2 minutes. Sport has been writing him letters about everyone in LazyTown for the past 2+ _years_.
> 
> also also, video games are not some Strange Human Concept, they're just... not Sportacus's thing.
> 
>  **ETA:** the thing i changed is that Robbie does know about the propensity for individual homes owned by magical beings to become Territories –– he just didn't think he had enough fae magic for that to apply to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the wonderful comments! And thanks for reading :)

Sportacus didn't know a lot about his brother's job.

Both of them preferred to keep it that way.

He did know it was _dangerous_ –– extremely so in short bursts, but also at least a _little_ bit more or less consistently. He also knew it often kept him from returning correspondence, though Íþrótt had assured him that he did at least _receive_ most of his letters. Eventually. Phone calls and video chats were out of the question.

Sportacus had learned to interpret the messages Íþrótt did manage to send back. Most of them were short, vague, and carefully cheerful: business as usual. Some of them were comprised almost entirely of questions –– how are you, how are the kids, what schemes have you had to foil lately? Depending on the tone, these meant either: _I am very bored_ or _sorry_ _I think I missed your last letter_ _or six_.

Every so often over the years since Íþrótt had started his job, and two or three times since Sportacus had come to LazyTown, he'd received much longer letters. The writing in these was... different. Rambling and heartfelt, leaping from topic to topic with a little less careful omission of details: _I'm starting to forget what these mountains looked like from a distance_ –– _sometimes I really wonder_ _if I'm out here for the right reasons or if I'm just showing off_ –– _people_ _ignore all the warnings and meddle with things that shouldn't be meddled with and then act surprised when it blows up in their faces_ –– _sometimes I don't know if I can keep doing this and sometimes I hate that I_ _ **can**_ –– _you know I'm proud of you, right?_

Those were the letters that scared him.

Íþrótt had never been... overprotective. Not in the traditional sense. He'd trusted Sportacus to figure things out on his own, which had often meant doing things like, for instance, ditching him in the middle of nowhere and observing from a distance while he found his way back home. Or actually following through on threats of warding him from the house if he stayed out after curfew. Or shoving him off a ledge to make a point about letting instincts do their job instead of overthinking every landing. ("See? You did great!" " _Íþrótt_!" "Oh, _relax_ , I would have caught you.")

The one thing Íþrótt had consistently tried to shield him from, though, was himself. The very possibility that he might ever be anything but confident and happy and completely sure of everything –– that was something he had never willingly let Sportacus see. So when he sent letters that said things like _I keep thinking of home lately_ and _I don't think I like the kind of person this is turning me into_ and _I haven't slept in a week_ , what Sportacus read was: _I am so miserable and afraid and alone that I am actually telling_ _ **you**_ _about it because I need to tell someone who might actually care_.

(The letter that had scared him the _most_ was –– well. Íþrótt had written: _you know I'm proud of you, right?_ and Sportacus had read: _I think I might be about to die_.)

The Íþrótt standing in front of him now was the Íþrótt he imagined writing the short, cheerful letters, reveling in the aftermath of a job well done or the anticipation of risk: he was grinning, bouncing on his feet, rubbing his hands together and then shaking them out.

He noticed Sportacus watching him and rolled his eyes, draping an arm around his shoulders. " _Relax_ , seriously. I do know what I'm doing."

Sportacus ducked out of his grasp, crossing his arms. "I'm allowed to worry about you."

"No you're not," said Íþrótt, swinging up the infrastructure to the top of the billboard and mock-glaring down at him with his hands on his hips. "I forbid it. I'll ground you."

Sportacus leaned back against the ladder and shook his head. "I'm serious. This is –– a bad one."

"I know you don't want to hear this, but I guarantee I've dealt with worse," Íþrótt said, beginning to pace back and forth atop the billboard. "How many thrall reinforcements?"

"Three."

Íþrótt cocked his head. "Not kid stuff," he admitted. "But not terrible. What are they?"

"The first one's just the standard freezing burn. The second one..." Sportacus repressed a shudder at the mere memory. "It's like –– you're being squeezed so hard every bone in your body is going to snap, not –– not even in _half_ , snap at every possible point, and it's not –– just the bones, it's –– everything."

Íþrótt nodded like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to be preparing himself to encounter on five minutes' notice. "And the third?"

"It... shows you things. Um." Sportacus clenched his hands into fists, trying to banish the recalled images from his mind's eye. "Robbie –– Robbie said something about worst fears? I think that's... probably right."

Íþrótt whistled, low. "Okay. Wasn't expecting _that_. Whoever left this must have been a real piece of work –– physical pain is at least good for convincing most people to stop thinking about it. The psychological stuff is just... vindictive."

Something _pinged_ in the back of Sportacus's mind, but before he could chase the thought, Íþrótt had leapt down in front of him and was giving him a very serious look. "Listen," he said quietly, setting one hand on Sportacus's shoulder. " _You_ broke this glamour in just about the most dangerous way possible. It's not going to be as bad for me, okay?"

"...Yeah." Sportacus sighed. His brother did have a point. "Okay."

At which point the hatch swung open behind him and he turned to see Robbie emerge, looking unhappy.

"Well," Robbie said, hauling himself up out of the chute, "most of what I've got lying around is anti-elf, which." He raised an eyebrow and gestured back and forth between the two of them. " _Not_ ideal."

Íþrótt chuckled. "I think I've got us covered, but thanks for looking." Then he unzipped a small pouch strapped to his right leg just above the boot, and withdrew what looked like three wooden coins. He tossed one to Sportacus, who caught it, and one to Robbie, who didn't.

The coin was emanating heat, and it took Sportacus a moment to figure out what was striking him as odd about that: it didn't feel any warmer under his bare fingers than it did on his gloved palm. There was something else, too –– a dim energy, humming faintly.

Robbie, having retrieved his own coin, tapped him on the shoulder and said, "You might want to take that off."

"What –– oh." He let the prototype shield slide down his arm and carefully set it on the ground.

The instant he let go of it, the coin's energy spiked, thrumming up his arm and then throughout the rest of him. It wasn't... _wholly_ unpleasant. It felt a bit like being unexpectedly shoved into a particularly warm lake. In slow motion.

The most unsettling aspect was the certain knowledge that the energy was... not _his_. It wasn't joining him –– it was enveloping him.

"Basic magic dispersal medallions," Íþrótt said, tossing one back and forth to himself. "Modified to activate in the event of a glamour break. I'll still get the brunt of it, you two shouldn't actually notice anything –– you'll pretty much be channeling runoff energy so it can recycle itself safely into neutral magic, but if it gets to be too much for _either_ of you, _drop_ them. Don't hesitate. I've done this alone plenty of times, in worse circumstances than this."

Sportacus did not exactly find this reassuring. He glanced at Robbie, who was studying his own medallion with a blank look, turning it over and over.

Íþrótt took a deep breath and planted his feet firmly, shoulder-width apart. Focusing his gaze somewhere in the middle distance, he said, "Okay. So what is it?"

* * *

Ugh. Robbie was _not_ looking forward to this.

He was therefore very surprised to hear himself say, "My turn to do the honors, I think."

Sportacus looked startled. "Do you –– I mean, you don't have to."

Robbie frowned. "Did you want to?"

"Not –– exactly, no, I just figured –– I mean, no, go ahead."

"I wasn't trying to––"

"Boys," Íþróttaálfurinn broke in, "as much as I hate to interrupt your game of no-you-hang-up-first ––"

"That's not ––"

" _What_ ––"

" _I_ am hanging up first; Robbie, _you_ tell me."

Robbie glanced sideways at Sportacus, who shrugged. "Go ahead," he said quietly.

"Um." Robbie cleared his throat and took a hesitant step forward. " _Right_."

 _W_ _hy_ had he volunteered to do this? More to the point, why did Íþróttaálfurinn apparently _want_ him to be the one to do this?

...Better a stranger's voice than his own brother's, maybe, to shatter the illusion.

"Don't you find it _strange_ ," Robbie said slowly, trying not to think too hard about his own words, "that almost nobody actually _lives_ here? That most of the people who _do_ just... never go outside? For any reason?"

Suddenly he felt –– something. A jolt of magic. Not painful, but not... good. It reminded him a little of the time he had tried out his Cloud Of Mist disguise and accidentally phased through a screen door –– except this time, he was the door.

Íþróttaálfurinn's face had gone blank. He opened his mouth –– shut it –– opened it again. "...Oh."

"Sportacus said he wrote you letters," Robbie went on. "About everyone here. Did you never wonder why he only talked about the same few people, every time?"

"...Well." Íþróttaálfurinn raised an eyebrow. " _Shit_. I guess not."

Robbie glanced back at Sportacus, who looked about as bewildered as Robbie himself felt. This... was already not how he had expected this to go.

"Um," said Sportacus, stepping up beside Robbie. "Íþrótt? Are you sure it's working?"

"Oh, definitely," Íþróttaálfurinn said, clenching and unclenching his hands. "Still just on the first defense, though. Oh –– nope, spoke too soon." His jaw locked shut, voice slurring slightly through gritted teeth. "It has been a _while_ since my last encounter with a vice thrall. I did _not_ miss it."

" _Well_." Robbie was at a loss. Was... he supposed to keep trying to say shocking things? Or just let the glamour run its course? "This feels almost... anticlimactic."

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed. _Laughed_. "I _told_ you both I know what I'm –– oh. Okay. Wondered when the last one would..."

He trailed off. Stumbled back a step, staring at –– something. Nothing. The empty space on the ground between the three of them. "Okay –– okay, I guess I haven't –– dealt with this kind in a while either," he said, and the laughter now was high, and forced. "This isn't very –– sophisticated though, is it, there's no way that's ––" He kicked suddenly at nothing, sending himself staggering. "Right! Nothing, there's nothing there, this must have been –– a rush job, or just very old, or –– or ––"

His voice was rising steadily in pitch, and he was still staring at –– _whatever_ it was that wasn't there. He backed all the way up to the billboard and startled at the contact, spun around and tripped over his own feet.

Sportacus leapt forward, caught him, lowered him to the ground and settled across from him, clutching at his wrist with the hand not holding the medallion. "Íþrótt –– _listen_ to me, it's okay, whatever it is, you're right, it's not _there_."

Íþróttaálfurinn had twisted to continue staring at that same spot on the ground, but at the sound of his brother's voice, he wrenched his head up. " _Sport_ –– um. Right. _Right_. Keep talking, would you?"

Robbie _froze_.

Oh.

Of course.

Sportacus didn't seem to get it. "Uh –– yes, sure, I can do that," he stammered, brow furrowing in worry. "Um, what should I –– what should I talk about?"

"...Just whatever comes to mind," Íþróttaálfurinn said, with strained nonchalance. "The topic isn't really the point."

Of course not. The point, Robbie suspected, was that _dead people_ didn't tend to talk much.

He could see the moment it clicked for Sportacus as well –– his eyes went wide; he sat up straighter and tugged his brother forward, pressing forehead to shoulder with his free hand, wrapping his other arm around him. Stopping him from looking at –– well, stopping him from _looking_.

"I'm _fine_ ," he said firmly. "I'm safe. I'm alive."

Robbie felt suddenly out of place –– an intruder on some sort of family... _thing_. He crossed his arms and looked away, wondering belatedly if he ought to have put up some basic illusory walls to keep any potential passersby from noticing their little... gathering.

On the other hand, the relative _lack_ of hypothetical witnesses was the whole point of this mess.

Sportacus was still talking. Robbie was trying not to hear him. Mostly he seemed to be talking about the children, because of course he was.

"...Okay." At the sound of Íþróttaálfurinn's voice –– not quite back to normal but much, much closer –– Robbie finally did look back around.

"Okay," the elf said again, more firmly, and the energy Robbie had almost stopped noticing suddenly reversed itself, flowing back into the medallion as the brothers got to their feet.

"Well!" Íþróttaálfurinn said brightly, not quite looking at either of them. "That could have been much worse! Now who wants to tell me what the _hell_ happened to this town?"

Robbie started to say _Number 9 happened to it, genius_ , and got as far as "Num––" when suddenly, for the second time in less than a month, a panicked Sportacus was leaping at him and clapping a hand over his mouth, and really –– _honestly_ –– Robbie knew he sometimes asked too much of this world, but if _that_ could just _never_ _happen_ _to_ _him_ _again_ , he would be –– _content_.

"Sorry, Robbie, I just –– realized –– Íþrótt, _don't listen_ to this, cover your ears, _hum_ , I don't know, just ––"

All of this _without removing his hand_.

Robbie realized he could, in theory, simply take a step backwards. His brain considered this plan, accepted it as viable, and utterly refused to convey it to his legs.

At least Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't _smirking_ at them. Mostly he just looked bewildered.

Rolling his eyes, Robbie snapped his fingers –– and then shoved Sportacus's hand away from his face while his brain was busy focusing on the magic, and therefore couldn't stop him.

"Sound bubble," he said, shooting for bored exasperation and missing the mark entirely. He didn't care. As long as he managed to get through the next few minutes without touching his own mouth, he was going to consider this a win. "Now _what_ are you babbling about?"

"I think there's another one," Sportacus hissed. "I think –– he said something earlier, about 'whoever left this one,' I should have realized then –– I think –– I _think_ 9 must have glamoured the entire Order to keep them from thinking too critically about him in general!"

Oh.

Well, _fantastic_.

"What about you?" Robbie pointed out. He supposed he should be panicking about this, but it felt –– too big. So some elf Order was under a mass glamour; so what? Not his problem. He had enough to worry about. " _You_ figured it out on your own, in the immediate aftermath of _elfbane_ poisoning. That doesn't sound like _glamoured_ to me."

"Maybe..." Sportacus bit his lip. "Maybe it... wore off? Since I've spent so much time at the site of –– well, everything? Or maybe –– _s_ _hit_."

"What?"

" _Maybe_ ," Sportacus said, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, "he didn't bother to pull me into it at _all_. I was –– the new guy, kind of a –– nothing _malicious_ but there were jokes, you know, the real Number 10's kid brother, that sort of thing –– and we didn't run into each other very much, he... might have decided it wasn't worth it to stretch the glamour over one more person."

Robbie felt suddenly very cold. "What _exactly_ ," he said, with forced calm, "are you saying?"

Sportacus took a deep breath. "I am _saying_ , considering the timing –– a few years after I joined, he stopped showing up to things –– check-ins, meetings, he didn't even call in, didn't even send word that he couldn't make it. Any time I asked where he was, the others just said ––"

He snapped his mouth shut. Swallowed. Shook his head. "...They said he was _on assignment_ ," he muttered, in what was _quite possibly_ the angriest voice Robbie had ever heard from him. He made a mental note of just how _terrifying_ (and _nothing_ _else_ , damn it) that was. "I thought that was _weird_ , but I thought –– you know, okay, I'm still the new guy, I shouldn't question this, everyone else has been here much longer and they don't seem alarmed. I don't... I don't know if that was a glamour or if that was just _me_."

...The angriest he'd ever sounded, _directed at himself_.

No, that wouldn't do.

" _Hey_ ," Robbie said sharply. "I _told_ you he's good at manipulating people. With or without magic. That's probably exactly what he counted on happening –– all the higher-ups brainwashing everyone else _for_ him."

"Yes, and I walked right into it," Sportacus snapped.

"You and _anyone_ else who _ever_ asked any of them where he was," Robbie said firmly. "Get _over_ yourself, this is not the time for guilt. We have to figure out what to _do_." Okay –– that had _possibly_ come out _slightly_ blunter than he'd meant it to.

But it seemed to do the trick. Some of the tension eased out of Sportacus's posture. "Right. Yes." He sighed. "Okay –– we have no idea how powerful this one is, _or_ how old, or when he last renewed it, or how many defenses it has, _or_ what any of them are –– have I missed anything?"

"Yes," Robbie said glumly. "The fact that _you_ couldn't even make it twelve hours knowing about the _existence_ of a glamour in _general_ before your subconscious took a running leap at it. Your brother's been here about half that long and he's about four times _worse_ than you, so ––"

It wasn't like being hit by a truck.

It wasn't like drowning.

It wasn't like every nerve in his body bursting into flame.

Later, those would be the only descriptors he could think of, and they would be close. But it wasn't like any of those things. Not really.

What it was like was an immeasurable amount of _old_ , fractured, untuned _power_ lancing into his palm, surging up his arm, flooding his body, and _exploding_. Because that was what it was.

It could have been hours. It could have been an instant. Time had ceased to function; there was only _pain_ , unfathomable, beyond the physical or emotional; his _magic_ –– his _essence_ ––

Then he felt his fingers being pried open, and he ––

–– didn't black out.

Technically, he supposed that was a positive. It didn't feel like one.

He did –– lose track of the world, for a few –– seconds? Minutes? The pain stopped registering, which was fine with him. When he came back to himself, he was slumped against Sportacus, on the ground.

Robbie tried to mentally take stock of himself, didn't like the results, and took stock of Sportacus instead. He was wide-eyed and shaking, teeth chattering, hands clenched tight around ––

Two medallions.

Robbie sat up straight and _glared_ at him. "Do the words _hero complex_ ring any bells? Because they _should_ ; this is the second time you've made me say them in the past _hour_."

Sportacus shook his head, gasping for breath. "You're –– _human_ –– that was –– meant to –– subdue –– _multiple elves_ –– you could have –– _died_."

What little blood hadn't already drained from Robbie's face did so now. "...Oh. Um. I –– I mean." He slapped a hand over his eyes. _Just say it_. "...Thank you."

"Okay," Íþróttaálfurinn groaned, sitting up a few feet away from them. " _That_ wasn't fun. Everyone alive and accounted for?"

Sportacus gulped. "Yep."

"Present," Robbie said hollowly.

"Excellent. Could have been worse, then." Íþróttaálfurinn got slowly to his feet, breathing deeply. "Could have been a _lot_ worse, actually, if he'd bothered to maintain it. That _motherfucker_ , when I get my _hands_ on him ––"

There was a very quiet _pop_ that made the hair on the back of Robbie's neck stand on end.

 _It's not him_ , he thought, refusing to look around. _He has never been early for anything in his life. It's not him_.

"Well!" said an unmistakably familiar voice, and all three of them snapped their gaze to the top of the billboard.

Glanni raised an eyebrow and waved. "I seem to have missed quite a party."

"...I rescind my gratitude," Robbie said, resolutely ignoring his cousin and poking at the medallion in Sportacus's hand. "You should have let that thing kill me."

* * *

_[Art](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/155883598322/it-is-630-am-and-i-still-have-not-slept-at-all) by [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! Two orders of business before the chapter starts:
> 
> First, a correction, which I actually meant to post in the notes of chapter 6. Oops: I tweaked chapter 5 a bit, because it just did not make sense for Robbie not to know about the concept of individual homes becoming Territories. I changed it to him just not realizing that he had enough fae magic to exert that kind of power over a place without trying.
> 
> Secondly, and more exciting:
> 
> [Pandemi-Doodles](http://pandemi-doodles.tumblr.com/), [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/), [Fisheeart](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/), and [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/) have created some a m a z i n g art based on this series! Please, go check out their blogs!
> 
> Stuffdone's pieces are [here](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/155883598322/it-is-630-am-and-i-still-have-not-slept-at-all), [here](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/155902641167/haaha-i-made-it-way-more-dramatic-than-it-was), and [here](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/155913448582/kay-last-one-for-today-and-before-you-ask-yes)!
> 
> Pandemi-Doodles' piece is currently a WIP [here](http://sta.sh/0ahgx8kz6r9) and [here](http://sta.sh/021m7ngs0pbe)! I'll link to the finished version as well :)
> 
> Fishee's pieces are [here](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/post/156039629954/full-on-nostalgia-bomb-and-the-amazing-writing-of), and I will link hers again in the next chapter notes since this is an ETA! i am So Very Emotions
> 
> Celepom's piece is [here](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156061390052/more-fic-inspired-art-this-time-by-the-latest)! It's based on the beginning of this chapter, actually, so mild spoilers! I will link to this one again next time as well :D
> 
> If I've missed anything, please let me know!
> 
> It is... astonishing to me that anyone would invest so much time and effort into creating something based on words I wrote. I am blown away and truly grateful. <3
> 
> ETA: One more thing, actually! Mild emetophobia warning for this chapter. Nothing graphic.

Somebody should definitely be leaping into action right about now.

Normally, Sportacus would have acted on that impulse long before it had the chance to become a conscious thought. At the moment, however, his limbs did not seem interested in listening to him. He felt... hollowed out. And very, very cold. His crystal was flashing red in warning, though thankfully not making any noise.

Possibly it would have been smarter to _drop_ the other medallion after getting it away from Robbie, but at the time –– well. Íþrótt had said he'd still get the brunt of the thrall reinforcements even _with_ both of the other medallions in play. Sportacus had not been eager to find out what removing one of them would do to that equation.

But now it was _over_ , and they were all _alive_ , and there was a mysterious figure clad in black and... not much else, smirking down at them from the top of the billboard, and Sportacus couldn't _move_.

And then Íþrótt said cordially, with just a touch of resignation, "Glæpur. I wondered when you would see fit to show up."

Which. _What_.

The figure –– Glæpur, apparently –– gave a wicked grin. " _Dear_ Íþró, it has been too long!"

And then, without so much as a gesture, he vanished.

Sportacus had just enough to time to say, " _Um_ ––?" before he reappeared ––

–– right next to Íþrótt, and, in the most threatening approximation of _friendliness_ Sportacus had ever seen, leaned against him, hooking an arm around his neck. "So who's the motherfucker you're so eager to get your hands on? Should I be jealous?"

Very slowly, and maintaining eye contact with Glæpur throughout, Íþrótt reached over his own shoulder, unwound Glæpur's arm from around his neck, and pointedly dropped it.

Glæpur overbalanced and fell, yelping indignantly.

Íþrótt glared down at him. " _Don't_ call me that."

" _Íþró_ or _dear_?" Glæpur queried, stretching out on the ground with his hands pillowed behind his head.

Íþrótt covered his face with one hand. " _Yes_."

* * *

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156061390052/more-fic-inspired-art-this-time-by-the-latest) (5 more at link) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *

Some of the feeling was returning to Sportacus's limbs. Things like common sense, critical thinking, and general situational awareness were also coming back online, and he realized he'd been watching this exchange with his mouth half open and his voice stalled in his throat, crowded with the disparate components of too many questions to adequately assemble any of them.

He snapped his mouth shut and turned to Robbie, who –– had his eyes screwed shut and was rapping his knuckles sharply against his own forehead at steady intervals.

Alarmed, Sportacus finally dropped the medallions, reaching over to lay a hand on top of Robbie's. "Are you okay?"

Robbie opened one eye just wide enough to give him a _scathing_ look. " _Peachy_."

"I..." Sportacus glanced at his brother, who was now pulling Glæpur to his feet, and then back at Robbie. "Am I _hallucinating_?"

Robbie heaved a deep, bone-weary sigh, and got to his feet. "Sadly, no."

"Nice to see you, too, cousin," Glæpur cackled, suddenly _directly_ behind Robbie and patting him on the back.

Oh.

Well, that explained the resemblance –– the resemblance Sportacus had been mostly trying not to notice, think about, or extrapolate from, under the circumstances. The circumstances being a _catsuit_.

Massaging his temples briefly, Robbie took a deep breath and turned to face his cousin. "Glanni," he said, voice tight, "I feel like someone just used my body to jumpstart a _car_. I am going to _throw up_ before this night is over, and if you don't stop _teleport spamming_ , I am going to throw up _on you_."

Glæpur took a hasty step backwards. "All right, all right. Sue me for wanting to make an entrance."

* * *

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156101019502/some-warm-up-sketches-more-generally-inspired-by) (1 more at link) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *

Increasingly aware of his status as, apparently, the person with the least amount of information, as well as the only one still on the _ground_ , Sportacus hastily got to his feet and said, "I'm guessing this is, ah, your 'contact'?"

"I was _going_ to warn you," Robbie said morosely, crossing his arms. "And then things kept _happening_ –– mostly your _brother_ , actually, _he_ kept happening –– and Glanni was supposed to be here _tomorrow_ , so I figured we had at least another week." He turned back to his cousin, narrowing his eyes. "Apparently all it takes to bring him running is to mention ––"

" _Anyway_ ," Glæpur said loudly. "Now that I _am_ here, we can get down to business, yes?"

"I am not doing another glamour break," Robbie hissed. Then he poked pointedly at the crystal on Sportacus's chest. "And neither are _you_."

"Agreed," said Íþrótt, stooping to retrieve the abandoned medallions from the ground. "You two get some rest. I can help him."

" _Absolutely not_ ," Sportacus shouted, diving for the medallions and managing to knock his brother's hand away from the second one, at least. "You just broke _two of them_!"

Íþrótt shrugged. "I've had worse."

"You keep _saying_ that!" He was –– dimly aware of the others all staring at him, knew he was escalating this beyond what it needed to be. But sudden panic had his heart pounding in his throat, adrenaline spiking uselessly. "It is _much less reassuring_ than you seem to think!"

"It's my _job_ ," Íþrótt said quietly. Holding steady eye contact, he extended one hand between them, palm up. "Please give me that."

"I..." Sportacus knew he was glaring. He tried to school his features into a more neutral expression without breaking the stare-down.

Íþrótt broke it anyway, rolling his eyes. "Sportacus, come _on_ , you're being ––"

Then there was a _pop_ (followed by retreating footsteps and distant retching) and Glæpur was standing between them, eyebrows raised. "As much as I _love_ a good breakdown of communication, this is completely pointless. I broke the glamour before I arrived."

"You _what_?" Robbie yelped, staggering back from around the other side of the billboard.

Glæpur glanced around. "We shouldn't discuss this in the open."

"Oh, _sure_!" Robbie said, flinging one arm up to gesture dramatically at the sign. "You'll stand up there in plain sight wearing –– _that_ , but if we're gonna have a _discussion_ , we have to crowd _everyone into my lair_."

Glæpur gave him a pitying look. "I'm not letting _humans_ see me right now, what do you take me for?"

" _I'm_ a human," Robbie snapped.

Glæpur rolled his eyes. "Present company excepted."

" _Lucky me_."

"Anyway, it's not _other_ _humans_ I'm worried about overhearing us. I'm only reasonably sure I wasn't followed."

"Well, _that's_ great," Robbie muttered, stalking over to the hatch and kicking the ladder. "Thank you _so much_ for taking our _safety_ into account –– come on! Everybody in, the sooner we get this conversation over with the sooner you can all get _out of my home_."

* * *

Ever since he'd caught his first glimpse of Robbie Rotten, Íþróttaálfurinn had more or less been expecting Glanni Glæpur to show up.

Which did not make his presence any less _stressful_.

He was almost glad for the myriad other things to worry about –– not least of all, Sportacus's clear agitation on the subject of his job. He'd shoved the medallion into his hands before descending into the chute, refusing to look at him.

Robbie, meanwhile, had collapsed in his chair, and Íþróttaálfurinn hardly had to glance at his aura to know he was about a hair's breadth from either blacking out or sending the next person to so much as _look_ at him flying across the room.

"Okay," Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly, hoping to get his foot in the door before this could turn into an omnidirectional glaring contest. "Before we do _anything_ else, we need ––"

"Apples," Sportacus muttered, knocking a fist against the _10_ on his chest. Three apples flew up out of his backpack. He caught them in a brief juggling motion, tossed one to Íþróttaálfurinn without looking at him, and offered another to Robbie.

Robbie scowled at it. And then at him. Sportacus scowled right back.

"It will make you feel better," he said.

Robbie pushed his hand away. "I don't _care_."

Íþróttaálfurinn took a bite, weighing the merits of stepping in versus standing back. Only now that some of his strength was returning did he fully realize exactly how _drained_ he'd been.

He was still sure he would have been _fine_ to help dismantle another glamour, of course.

But for now, maybe he would just... stand here, eat this apple while Glæpur made gagging noises at him, and observe his brother's negotiation skills.

"If you don't eat _yours_ ," Sportacus snapped, "I won't eat _mine_."

...Presumably, he did usually _have_ negotiation skills.

This, however, seemed to actually do the trick. Though now positively glowering, Robbie snatched the proffered piece of fruit and bit into it with exaggerated fervor. " _Happy_?"

"Yes," Sportacus said, over Glæpur's squawk of betrayal. "Thank you."

Then he backed off and started pacing, tossing his own apple harshly from hand to hand. Íþróttaálfurinn had to bite his tongue to keep from reminding him to actually _eat_ it, which he strongly suspected might have led to some form of explosion.

"All right," he said instead. "Glæpur. _Explain_."

"Óséðurskuggi."

The temperature in the room _dropped_. Magic crackled off of the newly revealed common name in waves.

Sportacus stopped pacing. Robbie curled into himself in the chair.

"...Is that," Íþróttaálfurinn managed, once he had found his voice. "Is that what _he's_... going by these days?"

Glæpur nodded tersely. "For about five years now."

Sudden laughter from Robbie –– too tired to be hysterical. "Of _course_ he'd –– _Óséðurskuggi_? Óséðurskuggi. _Seriously_."

"How did you know?" Íþróttaálfurinn demanded, not taking his eyes off of Glæpur, who gave a theatrical shrug.

"I have my ways."

"Glæpur––"

"Glanni, I will _murder_ you."

"Fine, fine, take the fun and mystery out of life," Glæpur sniffed, hopping up to sit on a worktable. "He's been on my list for some time now. Óséðurskuggi, last known aliases Réttlátursigurvegari––" (Robbie _choked_.) "––and Number 9 of the Order of the Crystal."

"You _knew_?" Robbie barked, rocketing to his feet at the same time that Íþróttaálfurinn and Sportacus both took several steps forward.

"Not about this place!" Glæpur yelped, cringing back on the table. "I knew he'd been –– causing _problems_ , I didn't know _fucking LazyTown_ was the missing link!"

"You could have alerted the Order," Íþróttaálfurinn said quietly, breathing deeply, clenching and unclenching his hands –– trying to keep the anger in check. "You could have done _something_."

"Oh, yes," Glæpur sneered, "and how do you think _that_ conversation would have gone? 'Excuse me, bunch of high and mighty _elves_ , but I, Glanni Glæpur, have some information for –– oh, are those handcuffs _new_?'"

He stood up on the table and crossed his arms, glaring at them all in turn and then the room at large. "You don't think I _tried_? We've been running into minor glamours all over MayhemTown and the underbellies of _everywhere else_ –– wherever he's gone, he left behind a _web_ , and there are still too many people _stuck_ in it."

"We could go to the Order _now_ ," Sportacus said. "All four of us. We can break them free of it; they can't just –– _ignore_ this."

"They _can_ ," Glæpur snarled, vanishing and reappearing directly in front of Sportacus, who blanched and backed up to a wall, "they _have_ , and they _will_."

" _Glanni_ ," Robbie said sharply. "Leave him alone."

Glæpur whirled, advancing now on Íþróttaálfurinn. "You think he just waltzed into the Order and snapped his fingers? You think it's just a simple _glamour_? No. I _guarantee_ he's got contingencies –– "

"You're probably _right_!" Íþróttaálfurinn said loudly, holding his hands out in a gesture that he hoped came across as placating, as opposed to exasperated. Which he was. "So you will you _please_ calm down?"

Glæpur had frozen, eyes comically wide. "I'm probably _what_?"

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He's been Number 9 for –– _decades_ now. I don't know how long he's been doing... whatever it _is_ he's been doing, _but_. I'm sure he didn't just... stumble into it."

"Robbie," Sportacus said faintly, still pressed flat against the wall. "You said he was –– good at manipulation. With or without glamours."

All eyes turned to Robbie, who turned very slightly green.

"Um," he said. "Yes. I... still don't know exactly what I meant by that. But it makes sense, if –– if he had any sort of longterm plan..."

Íþróttaálfurinn decided to rescue him. "Then he probably took his time to lay the groundwork, ingratiate himself, _earn_ their trust –– that would lend the glamour a _lot_ of strength." He slowed down, thinking aloud now. "It's... possible it was only so easy to break _me_ out of it because I only knew him for a few years. I don't know _when_ he glamoured me, but we didn't exactly have time to build up a lifelong friendship or anything."

" _And_ ," Glæpur said, stamping sharply with the thick heel of one boot, "since apparently none of _you_ are going to say it: it's entirely possible one or more of the others is in on it _with_ him."

The silence following this proclamation made Íþróttaálfurinn's ears ring.

Glæpur crossed his arms, looking abruptly self-conscious. "I'm just saying," he muttered.

"You're... not wrong," Íþróttaálfurinn admitted. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be asleep –– less out of physical exhaustion and more out of a desire to just stop _thinking_ about all this. It was a sensation he was not unfamiliar with. "If we tell the Order... If that goes _wrong_ –– it goes really, really, _irreversibly_ wrong."

"So it's just the four of us," Robbie said quietly.

Íþróttaálfurinn shook his head, dispelling all notions of sleep. He had a lot of writing to do. "There are people I can trust."

Glæpur huffed a laugh. "And there are people I can pay."

"Fantastic," Robbie said weakly. "Glad that's settled. Now will you both –– will you all please _leave_."

 _Both_ , Íþróttaálfurinn thought, and, despite the situation, had to fight down a smirk.

Glæpur didn't bother to. "Of _course_ , cousin, we'll _both leave_."

Robbie shot him a look that said, quite clearly: _I am too tired to care_.

"I'll just pop back _home_ for a couple of days," Glæpur said pointedly. "I'll give everyone your warm regards, shall I?"

Robbie flipped him off. Glæpur outright cackled. "Yes, I'll be happy to pass that along."

And he vanished.

Íþróttaálfurinn, Sportacus, and Robbie let out simultaneous sighs of relief. The sudden tension that immediately followed was broken by Sportacus's nervous laughter.

Íþróttaálfurinn's attention snapped to his brother.

Vague worries had been nagging at him before this, but it had become alarmingly clear over the last several minutes: something was _wrong_. Even considering the circumstances, Sportacus was... downright _jumpy_.

Something must have happened. Something he hadn't mentioned.

"Sport..." Íþróttaálfurinn started, and let his voice trail off. Now was not the time for another drawn-out conversation. Especially one that would likely turn into an argument.

He sighed. "Please actually _eat_ that apple, before you pass out?"

"Oh! Um." Sportacus blinked down at the apple in his hand like he'd forgotten it was there. "Yeah. Yes. Thanks."

"Good. Robbie –– thank you for the hospitality, sorry to impose."

Robbie just shrugged.

"Good night," Íþróttaálfurinn said, his voice strange in his own head.

He climbed up the chute, shut the hatch, and allowed himself a brief moment to gaze at the stars and think about nothing at all.

* * *

The instant he heard the hatch shut, Sportacus slid down the wall and folded in on himself.

As an afterthought, he took a few bites of the apple.

It helped. A little.

"Well," said Robbie, after a few too many beats of nothing but crunching. "Let's... never do any of that again."

Sportacus looked up, too drained to laugh. "Agreed."

"Are you... okay?"

Sportacus blinked, scrutinizing Robbie's face. It was getting harder to string thoughts together. "I'm... Yes, I'm fine." He waved a hand. "Just –– that... took a lot out of me." He didn't specify which _that_ he meant. He didn't _know_ which _that_ he meant. The glamour. The _other_ glamour. The constant danger Íþrótt seemed to revel in and the unexpected _impossibility_ of reconciling with this fact in person, as opposed to through carefully constructed letters. The revelation that the Order might be in worse shape than they'd thought even half an hour ago.

The sudden anxiety spike at someone appearing out of thin air directly in front of him and snarling in his face, while he was severely low on energy, in Fae Territory ––

He took a deep breath, and repeated himself. "I'm fine."

"...Sure."

Robbie did not sound like he believed him.

He _did_ sound too tired to pursue the subject.

"It's almost nine o'clock, do you want to just...? I –– I think I have a couch. Somewhere."

"Oh –– um." Sportacus felt heat creeping up his neck. And also _nausea_ , at the thought of spending another minute surrounded by fae magic. "I can't –– I mean, thank you, I just ––"

Robbie's face was turning an interesting shade of maroon. "Right, never mind, I didn't ––"

"No, it's not –– it's _not_ –– it's just. The magic."

" _Right_. Yes. _That_. Sorry. Wasn't –– wasn't thinking."

"Thank you, though, really," Sportacus said quietly, getting to his feet and offering Robbie the most genuine smile he could muster. It at least didn't _feel_ like a grimace. "Good night."

"...Yeah. Um. Good night." Robbie's face seemed torn between several different expressions.

Too tired, or too anxious, or too  _something_ , to dwell on –– anything, just, _any_ of it, Sportacus made his way back up the chute.

He hopped out, ignoring the ladder, shut the hatch, turned, and nearly tripped over the anti-magic shield.

"...Oh." He stared at it.

 _Could_ he just...?

No. No. Not a good idea. It was better than nothing but it wasn't enough. Not when it was already so much easier to breathe out here.

He picked up the shield and started to walk –– slowly, tossing it experimentally to himself. Each time he made contact with the object, there it was: that sudden _blanket_ , not quite a disconnect, just a thin layer between himself and the neutral magic of his surroundings. And each time he let go, that layer vanished, and the magic rushed in.

Fascinating.

And much safer to think about than anything else that might try to cross his mind as he made his way back to his ship.

* * *

The empty streets of LazyTown made for a delightfully distracting obstacle course.

As long as he didn't stop to think about _why_ they were so empty.

Íþróttaálfurinn vaulted a wall and considered his options.

The children had argued, earlier, about who he was going to stay with. Stephanie had been winning when he left, but the thought of knocking on the mayor's door after what he'd just learned –– the thought of knocking on _anyone's_ door, smiling and joking, normal conversation ––

No.

He made his way back to his hot air balloon, and was not at all surprised to sense the aura of Glanni Glæpur, sprawled out lazily in the basket.

"Took you long enough," Glæpur said, sitting up and stretching.

Íþróttaálfurinn wordlessly pulled the craft down via sandbag rope, jumped in, and collapsed.

"Whatever you have to say," he said, staring blankly up into the balloon as the basket swayed back into position, "just say it and go. I have a lot of letters to encrypt and I'm sure you've got –– I don't know, _extortion_ to see to."

"Say that a little louder," Glæpur muttered. "Any spies more than a dozen yards away might have missed it."

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed. "What do you _want_ , Glæpur?"

"To go back in time and throttle my aunt and uncle for letting my cousin _move_ here."

A distant alarm bell rang in Íþróttaálfurinn's head. "Letting him?"

"He was sixteen."

Íþróttaálfurinn sat straight up. "He was _what_ ––"

"Relax, I did bother to do some _basic math_ before coming all the way here –– LazyTown dropped off the social map about ten years ago. He would have been twenty-two. Wipe that look off your face, I know elves are basically helpless until they turn _forty_ ––"

"That's not ––"

"––but twenty-two-year-old human beings are perfectly capable of making adult decisions like, apparently, not bothering to write home about the sudden presence of _suspicious elves_."

"I'm sure he _couldn't_ , Glæpur, that's... That's the whole point."

Glæpur didn't respond, just harrumphed unhappily and wrapped his arms around his knees, glaring off at nothing.

"...Besides," Íþróttaálfurinn said, before he could rethink it. "My brother's been writing me letters about this place for... a couple years now, for all the good that did."

"Yes, but were _you_ staring at a half finished puzzle and wondering what could possibly fit in this big, _LazyTown-shaped_ empty space?!"

"Yes," Íþróttaálfurinn said flatly.

Miraculously, Glæpur shut up.

"I can only think of a few places where someone like him could hide," Íþróttaálfurinn continued, not allowing himself to overthink what he was saying, or who he was saying it to. "The most likely among them being a mountain range I spent three _years_ running _all over_ , wondering what I was _missing_."

"...Ah."

"I don't think anyone outside of LazyTown can... think very critically about the place for very long."

" _I_ thought about it," Glæpur snapped. "I _thought_ , 'what could be so dangerous he won't even _encrypt_ it,' and I thought, 'it can't possibly be _him_ but I'd better check,' and _then_ I thought, 'well, fuck, that sure was a _fucking glamour break_ ,' and then I took a look around this big, _empty_ _town_ and I thought –– I ––"

He cut himself off and seemed to deflate, slumping against a corner of the basket. "If he'd just _written_ me. Just _once_. About _anything_."

"It's not your fault," Íþróttaálfurinn said dully, staring down at his hands. _It's not our fault. It's not my fault._

Glæpur made an indignant noise. "Who said it was my _fault_? Did I _say_ it was my fault?"

"Of course not." Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes and straightened up. "Silly me."

They sat in silence for a while. Íþróttaálfurinn didn't bother trying to work out whether it was a comfortable one or not. He wasn't sure which answer would have unnerved him the most.

"You know," Glæpur said at last, leaning folded arms on the edge of the basket and smirking into the night. "It's cute."

"Hm?" Íþróttaálfurinn mimicked his position, resting his chin on one hand. "What is?"

"The way those two circle each other and pretend not to notice."

"Oh, _that_." Íþróttaálfurinn laughed. It felt good to laugh, and mean it. Startling, but good. "Yes, yes it is."

"' _Leave him alone, Glanni_ ,'" Glæpur sneered, in an utterly inaccurate mockery of his cousin's voice. Then he shuddered. "I can't believe he ate an _apple_."

"Hm." Íþróttaálfurinn drummed his fingers along the edge of the basket, mind straying to brotherly duties. He'd always believed in trusting Sportacus to fend for himself as much as possible, and Robbie seemed like a good kid.

Still.

"Nothing personal, Glæpur," he said, keeping his voice light and pleasant, "but if your cousin hurts my brother, I'll cave in your skull."

* * *

_[Art](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156134172032/well-this-is-getting-intense) by [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still have questions? I sure hope so, because I've still got a long list of plot points to hit.
> 
> Íþrótt: [hides any personal problems from his brother 99% of the time]  
> Also Íþrótt: wtf why is my brother hiding his problems from me
> 
> Óséðurskuggi = Unseen/Unnoticed Shadow.  
> Réttlátursigurvegari = Righteous/Just Victor.
> 
> As per Google Translate and also [this place](http://digicoll.library.wisc.edu/IcelOnline/Search.TEId.html).
> 
> Fun fact! From my several pages of panicked backstory and lore! most of which will never organically crop up in story bc it's common knowledge in-universe! Straight out of my notes:
> 
> combine the fact that he is smack dab in the middle of learning about Human Cultures/Languages*, his real and emphatic love of sports, and his genuine admiration for his brother, and he definitely absolutely names himself Sportacus and thinks it's a really great name. (a lot of elves are. like this. he and Íþrótt had a neighbor whose common name was like. Butchered Russian* for "that feel when you go to draw the oTHER E Y E")
> 
> *Elvish as a language is something elves just inherently Know, carried through to them via Magic? so a lot of them are fascinated and impressed by the wide variety of human languages and Things Inevitably Happen. (sport focused on learning icelandic and english bc those were the two most common human languages in the surrounding area. icelandic came easier bc iceland is one of the places where elves and humans have kind of always coexisted and there's been centuries of linguistic borrowing on both sides?)
> 
> (Elvish being instinctive does not mean it's stagnant; it means elves everywhere become Aware of linguistic phenomena without actually being told, like. Sportacus knows when enough elves in the US start saying like. "flowerscream" to mean "that feel when u accidentally pick a sentient flower and it's screaming and you're screaming and it's like SAME FRIEND BUT YOU KNOW WHAT _YOUR_ PROBLEMS CAN BE SOLVED WITH SOME REPOTTING, I CAN'T JUST BURY THESE STUDENT LOAN DEBTS IN THE GROUND AND HOPE SOMETHING PRETTY GROWS OUT OF THEM")


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all as ever for reading, commenting, kudosing, and bookmarking! <3
> 
> Reminder that I am also [on tumblr](http://defectivevorta.tumblr.com), where I am... slightly better able to converse, but still not great at it, ffff.
> 
> Three notes before the chapter!
> 
>  **First, a content warning:** the first half of this chapter contains an ongoing depiction of an anxiety attack as experienced by the point of view character.
> 
> **Second, art! :D**
> 
> Stuffdone has created another stunning piece [here](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156134172032/well-this-is-getting-intense)
> 
> Pandemi-Doodles's amazing finished piece is [here](http://pandemi-doodles.tumblr.com/post/156139424544/he-rubbed-his-hands-together-magic-crackling)
> 
> Fisheeart's fantasic comics are [here](http://fisheeart.tumblr.com/post/156039629954/full-on-nostalgia-bomb-and-the-amazing-writing-of)
> 
> And some stellar art by Celepom can be found [here](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156061390052/more-fic-inspired-art-this-time-by-the-latest) and [here](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156101019502/some-warm-up-sketches-more-generally-inspired-by)!
> 
> Please check out their art blogs! I. still do not even know how to comprehend the fact that people are making art based on this; thank you _so_ much. If there's any out there that I haven't reblogged to gleefully squeal about, please assume I haven't seen it and point me in the right direction.
> 
> **Third, a note about timelines:**
> 
> sooo i started writing this series before i was even halfway through the show, i was still in season 2 and the... tone? of the first 2 seasons has been the biggest influence on like... how i started out writing Sport and Robbie's relationship and where it was developing from?
> 
> on the other hand, canonically speaking A Year passes between S1E09 and S3E02 while, in this fic, Sportacus has been in LazyTown for 2 years and a bit now
> 
> basically i... did not start out with an Exact Idea of how much of this would be completely AU / dependent on an AU setting vs how much would fit in with canon, so Various Things from the show itself probably haven't happened, at least not exactly as they did in canon? not just from seasons 3 and 4 but kind of... especially from that.
> 
> tl;dr This takes place After the events of the show itself, except some of them didn't happen, partially because AU Setting In General and partially because Robbie at the start of this series had not made quite as much progress along the "villain to weird friend" path as he canonically had by the end of the show. ...which is mostly because of the AU setting in general. this was a very long tl;dr
> 
> tl;dr of the tl;dr: timelines are weird, i'm very sorry

Sportacus woke with a start for the third time in as many hours, though this time instead of shaking off the lingering vestiges of hyperrealistic, nonsensical dreams, he was thrown immediately into a mental tug-of-war with the crystal.

It was interspersing visions of Robbie –– snapping awake, scrambling for a notebook –– and dizzyingly third-person visions of _himself_ –– convulsing violently, choking on air.

The beeping and flashing emanating from his own chest were _not_ helping.

"Stop!" he gasped, hands clamped tight over his ears, fingers digging into the base of his skull. "Stop, stop, stop, stop, _stop_ ––"

 _No ––_ _ **you**_ _stop_ _._ _ **Think**_ _. Don't just_ _ **yell**_ _at it_. This was emotional distress, not active, physical danger: it would stop the visions now that he'd been alerted, and it would stop everything _else_ once it was satisfied that he was addressing the situation.

Situations.

He couldn't help Robbie if he couldn't _breathe_.

In for five. Out for ten.

He shut his eyes and shoved all thoughts of external matters aside: _just count. just breathe_.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

Again.

Eventually, the lightheadedness faded enough for him to become consciously aware of it –– and then aware of the rest of his body, curled defensively into itself, rigid with panic.

Slowly –– carefully –– _seven... eight..._ –– he uncurled and lay flat on his back, willing the tension to ease from his almost painfully taut muscles. How long had this been happening before the crystal woke him up...?

And how much time had he just wasted?

He couldn't go to the lair –– it would take too long to calm his nerves sufficiently for a face to face conversation, to say nothing of jumping straight down into Fae Territory.

But he was reasonably sure he could at least keep control of his voice.

"Call Robbie Rotten ––" he winced, and cleared his throat. "...On speakerphone." There. Much better.

He sat up, forcing himself not to hold his breath as the ship's communication system flared to life.

 _ **One**_ _, two, three, four, five_.

The crystal, mercifully, dimmed and went quiet.

Robbie picked up on the second ring, sounding wide awake and confused. "Hello?"

 _One. Two._ "Hi. Um. I –– are you okay?"

"...Yes? Why?"

"My crystal went off," Sportacus said, and bit his tongue. _About... five minutes ago, probably_. No wonder Robbie was confused –– he'd probably assumed it hadn't registered, or hadn't woken him, or that he'd _ignored_ it, or ––

 _One-two-three-four- **five**_. "I –– thought it would be rude to just... burst into your home in the middle of the night."

"So I shouldn't work on potentially life-threatening projects after dark; good to know."

He lost his count on the exhale, choking on a startled laugh. "That's –– just a good rule in general, yes, but if it makes you feel better –– I definitely _would_ break in to save your life."

"Well, _thanks_. I –– it's fine, though, it was just..." In the short pause that followed, Sportacus could picture Robbie waving the matter aside with a dramatic hand gesture, and gave up on suppressing a fond smile when he realized there was no one around to see it. "...just _dreams_ again, you know."

"Ah. I figured as much –– I mean, it, um. The crystal showed me –– you woke up, and got a notebook? I –– didn't try to read what you wrote." Mostly because he'd been busy trying to stop hyperventilating, but the salient point was he _wouldn't_ have read it.

"Tell that thing it should learn to _knock_."

"I would if it ever _listened_ to me," Sportacus muttered, before he could stop himself. "I –– I mean, it just... It's just so I can tell who's in trouble and what kind. And it... wouldn't have alerted me if it didn't think I could help." He was at least _mostly_ sure that was true. Sometimes he suspected the crystal of being just sentient enough to possess two very dangerous things: fickleness and a sense of humor.

Robbie sighed. "Well, knock yourself out, the only comprehensible thing I wrote down was 'teeth.'"

" _Teeth_?"

"Teeth," Robbie confirmed, and the lightheadedness was starting to get worse again.

Deep breath. "That could... mean a lot of things."

"Or _nothing_ ," Robbie scoffed. "It could _mean_ the TV was playing an infomercial about _dentists_."

"I... I guess." Was that the right thing to say? _Was_ there a right thing to say? Sportacus felt hot and cold all over, anxiety gnawing at him, trying to drag his attention back to its efforts.

 _One. Two. Three. Four. Five._ "You said the only _comprehensible_ thing?"

"I can't even read the rest," Robbie said dismissively. "Except _snow_ , of course. There's always _that_."

"That could be a sign that it –– _was_ a significant dream, so maybe _teeth_... Maybe that's important?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," Robbie groaned, voice taking on a briefly muffled quality, like he'd run a hand over his face. "Because I've been _thinking_ it for the past five minutes, trying to figure out a way for that to _not_ be horrible."

"We shouldn't jump to conclusions," Sportacus said hurriedly. _Great job. Make him feel_ _ **worse**_ _._ "Like you said, it could be nothing. And if it is... _something_ , it's –– maybe something to discuss in the daylight."

"...Right." Robbie's voice went quiet. "Sorry, I'll just..."

* * *

_[Art](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156320919162/well-thats-not-unsettling-at-all-nope-nah-ah) by [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/). Posted here with the artist's permission._

* * *

Almost too late, Sportacus realized his mistake. "I didn't mean hang up! I –– sorry, I'm not –– I haven't been awake long either, I don't know how much sense I'm making, I just meant... There's no need to put yourself through that in the middle of the night. We –– I –– we can still _talk_. If. Um. If you want."

There was a long pause. Sportacus's heart was hammering, and he bit the inside of his mouth to keep from growling at himself in frustration. He wanted –– he _needed_ Robbie to know that he was willing to listen, willing to be there for him. He didn't have time to be sitting here panicking about –– nothing, honestly, _nothing_ compared to what Robbie was dealing with.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

"I just want to help," he said gently, once he was sure he could get the words out. "You can _talk_ to me, Robbie. You can always talk to me."

"...Yeah. Thanks. Um ––" Sudden noise: footsteps. Sportacus waited to see if they would stop. They didn't. Robbie was pacing.

"I," Robbie said, and then the footsteps sped up. For several seconds, that was all there was, against an unintelligible background noise that Sportacus assumed was coming from the television.

Then both sounds stopped, and Robbie sighed. "I was supposed to have this figured out by now."

"Supposed to?"

"That was –– the idea, right? You contact your people, I contact mine, and –– and then we figure this _out_ while we wait for them to show up. Your brother's _here_ , Glanni's... around, and I don't have anything useful to _tell them_."

Right. Yes. That _was_ the plan, wasn't it? To tell Íþrótt who or what he was looking for and where to start. So he could go off into extremely dangerous territory and –– 

Sportacus stopped thinking about that. "You expect... an awful lot of yourself, Robbie. It's only been –– what, ten days?"

"I _know_ , just –– we can't go looking ourselves, we don't know where to _send_ people, we can't contact your _Order_ , we can't –– it's –– we're spinning our wheels and I _hate_ it."

"...Yeah," Sportacus said, and then wanted to kick himself. "I mean –– I... Well, yes. We are. But that's not your fault! We wouldn't know _anything_ if it wasn't for you."

"If it wasn't for me _poisoning_ you," Robbie said flatly.

Sportacus glanced down at his hands. He didn't sleep with the gloves on, and he could just make out the faint, white scar on his left palm. He tore his gaze away before he could get stuck staring at it. Thinking about it. "As far as I'm concerned, Number 9 poisoned me."

"Óséðurskuggi," Robbie said firmly. "And _bullshit_."

"Óséðurskuggi," Sportacus corrected himself. "And _not_ bullshit; even if we don't know the specifics, _he_ was the reason you felt the need to set out elfbane traps in the first place." 

Robbie huffed a soft laugh. "Do you know how bizarre it is to hear you _swear_? I mean, it didn't really register the first time, what with... everything. Just. Really makes you realize ninety percent of our interactions have taken place in the presence of a gaggle of eight-year-olds."

So Robbie wanted a different topic.

Sportacus was happy enough to oblige. "Most of them are ten now."

"I _know_ how old they are!"

"...Okay, Robbie," Sportacus said, at a loss. The snap hadn't startled him. Not exactly. He didn't think he could _be_ startled right now; his nerves were already too on edge to be pushed any further.

"...Um." Robbie coughed. "I... don't... know why I –– sorry. Just... sorry."

Sportacus leaned sideways against the edge of the wall, staring blankly across the ship. "It's fine."

"It's _not_."

"You're under a lot of pressure. I'd rather you yell at me than yourself."

"What –– where did _that_ come from?"

"I..." Sportacus blinked. Where _had_ that come from? "Just, um..." He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Just something I suspect we might have in common, I guess." _Stop talking._ He forced a laugh. "Sorry, I'm just... babbling." 

"It's –– no, you're –– I –– I mean, you're... not _wrong_. I just... wasn't expecting that."

"Sorry." _Stop talking. Stop **talking to him**. _ "I didn't mean to overstep."

"That's not –– are you _okay_?"

Sportacus froze, hands clenched into fists in the mattress. "Yes," he said, slowly, paying attention to his voice and realizing he _hadn't_ been. "Why?"

"Because you sound –– not. At all."

Sportacus tilted his head back, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm –– it's... nothing to worry about." _Why can't you just **lie**._

A ringing silence from the other end of the line.

Then, finally, Robbie's voice. Quiet. Resolute. "You know... You've been listening to me ramble about my _dreams_ just about every day, you –– you went out of your way to tell me that you –– _care_ , or whatever, and you just –– you just called me in the middle of the night to tell me to give myself a _break_. And I –– really _hate_ this, you know? I hate _talking_ to –– to _anyone_ about –– stuff. So I _get_ it, but you –– you're right, it does _help_. So if... If you have to look at it –– if you need to somehow make it... less _weird_ , or –– I know I've said the words _hero complex_ a lot in the past twenty-four hours but if you're trying not to –– _burden_ me, or _whatever_ , just –– just consider it a fair trade, okay? Not for _listening_ , I mean, for –– having to _talk_ about it. I suffer through telling _you_ what's up, so now you... you tell _me_."

Right.

Right. Of course. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to expect so much emotional honesty from Robbie –– _Robbie_ , of all people. Robbie "I meant to do that" Rotten, who was forcing himself into constant displays of vulnerability and basically inviting Sportacus to help him psychoanalyze himself, while Sportacus –– what, pretended to be _perfect_?

_Sure, tell yourself that. You're just taking the excuse he gave you._

Sportacus shut his eyes.

Deep breath.

He owed Robbie the honesty. He just had to... not make a big deal out of it. Make it clear that Robbie was under no obligation to do anything. "It's just an anxiety attack."

"Ah." He could practically hear the sardonic eyeroll. " _Just_ one of those."

"I'm ––" _don't say you're used to it ––_ "I... know how to deal with them." Which was true. It... just so happened that most of his tactics were more... preventative. Exercise could generally keep his mind and body occupied long enough to outlast and redirect nervous energy before it could turn into –– well, _this_. The counting was something of a last resort, but it did seem to be working.

"Fair," Robbie said, and then cleared his throat. "So what's on your mind? I could use a distraction from my own."

"I..." Another excuse. Should he –– _could_ he take it?

Did he _want_ to take it?

If he didn't –– would he just be making Robbie feel bad? Make him feel like he had failed to help? "I... I don't..."

"...Unless talking it through would –– make it _worse_ ," Robbie said slowly. "In which case, disregard everything I said, do you want _me_ to keep talking?"

"I –– I –– I ––"

_What do you want? What do you **want**?_

Decisions were –– impossible. It wasn't even –– it wasn't _really_ a decision, he wasn't even trying to decide what to _do_ , he couldn't even –– didn't know what he _wanted_ to do; it was something he should have known instantly, _instinctively_ , but he just –– and it didn't matter, it really didn't, no one was going to _die_ if he couldn't figure out on the spot whether talking would help –– but the window for making any choice at all was closing; surely Robbie would hang up eventually and ––

–– and he didn't want him to.

"I think," he heard himself say, "I didn't realize how strange it would be for Íþrótt to _be_ here."

A rush of sound that he hadn't even noticed –– the clamor of his own frantic thought processes –– suddenly just _stopped_. Broke over him like a wave. The silence in his head left him dizzy, room spinning –– it had to be that because he was still breathing. He was. 

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

He mouthed the numbers silently, willing the floor to stop tilting.

"Go on," Robbie said quietly, and Sportacus jolted, wondered how long he'd been sitting there not saying anything.

"It's –– I mean... Just..." He didn't _know_. He didn't know what feeling –– what concept –– he was trying to get across in the first place and the words were evading him, skittering out of reach. It might have been at least a little easier to put together in Icelandic, but it was too easy to slip into Elvish from there, and he had no idea how much of it Robbie knew.

_Einn. Tveir. Þrír. Fjórir. Fimm._

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

He approached his own thoughts from a distance. Examined them clinically –– dispassionately –– in Elvish, turning them over like mildly interesting stones. Made them fit into Icelandic and then into English –– separately, not a throughline, could have skipped the Icelandic but it... helped. This was not a crisis. This was not a ticking time bomb threatening to go off at the first sign of critical thought. It was just... an exercise in translation.

"Íþrótt is –– the kind of person," he said slowly, "who... he shows up and –– and –– and everything suddenly seems less –– you stop _worrying_ so much because he's here and he'll _fix_ it and that –– that's not –– actually a _good_ thing for... me. Right now. Feeling, I mean, it's not –– I –– I feel –– remember when one of your machines turned me into a _child_ for a day? This is –– it's _like_ that, but _weirder_ than that. Somehow."

"You... don't like the reminder that you're someone's little brother," Robbie said, voice neutral.

"I guess?" Sportacus frowned. That wasn't quite it, but he wasn't sure what it _was_. "It's –– I, yes, a little bit, maybe, but it's more than that, it's –– I... feel _stuck_. Like I'm not... doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I –– calling him for help made sense at the time but now I hate that I _had_ to."

"It still makes sense," Robbie said mildly. "You didn't call him because you're a kid who wanted his brother to fix everything, you called him because dealing with stuff like this is his _job_."

Unbidden, Sportacus felt his hands clench into fists so tight it sent tremors up and down his arms. He couldn't make them relax –– clutched at the blanket instead, at least, to keep his nails from digging into his own palms. "That's –– that's... the other thing."

"You're worried about him." It wasn't a question.

"I –– he..."

_Einn. Tveir. Þrír. Fjórir. Fimm._

"I got used to it," he whispered. Cleared his throat and spoke up. He could barely hear himself over his own pounding heartbeat. "I got used to –– never knowing if he was safe. I... I learned to live with the fact that he's –– very likely to be in danger at –– at any given moment."

It wasn't just his heartbeat, he realized. The _noise_ was back, hammering at the inside of his skull. He tried to speak over it. "I just –– I –– I guess what I mostly learned was... to not think about him. Until I got a letter from him, and then it –– I can think about him then because the letters are –– they're not proof he's alive, but they're proof he _was_ , he _wa_ s alive, he sent me this, so as long as they keep showing up, even if they're full of –– of _terrifying_ things or nothing at all, as long as I keep _getting_ them, he's –– he's fine."

He'd –– he'd already _known_ this, hadn't he? That he thought of it that way. _Surely_ he'd known that much about himself. He... honestly wasn't sure. He'd certainly never said it out loud. He'd never said _any_ of this out loud.

Now he couldn't seem to stop.

"But now he's _here_ , breaking –– breaking glamours that I _know_ –– that we _both know_ were terrible! One of them nearly _killed_ me, if you hadn't been there I –– I –– and he keeps –– keeps saying –– that he's –– that he's seen _worse_ , that he's used to dealing with it _alone_ , in hostile Territory, and it's –– I can't ––"

When had he closed his eyes?

And when had the crystal thrown itself into the cacophony in his head?

He heard Robbie's voice, dimly, through a screaming wind tunnel. He couldn't make out the words.

 _Just keep talking_.

"I can't _think_ about that, but I can't _stop_ thinking about it, and we –– I –– I'm _sending_ him into –– _I'm_ the one who asked him for help and if anything _happens_ ––"

* * *

 

_[Art](https://amolecularmachine.tumblr.com/post/158916091474/sooooo-ive-been-reading-catch-your-breath-there) by [Amolecularmachine](https://amolecularmachine.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

The words stopped. Just _stopped_. They were right there –– he had them, he _knew_ them, but now he couldn't make a sound, for some reason, they just _wouldn't_ –– he wouldn't be able to hear himself, anyway, not over the steadily building roar of static in his head ––

"Sportacus!" Robbie's voice, crackling with magical amplification, slammed through the wall of noise. " _Breathe_!"

Oh.

He... hadn't been. Had he.

He didn't bother trying to count. Anything in his own voice, in his own head, was just going to turn into more noise. "Keep talking," he choked, wondering if it would even be audible. "Please."

Words. He couldn't make them out and didn't try, just latched onto the sound like a lifeline, grabbed hold and used it to haul himself out of his own head, focusing on that and on dragging in enough air.

Either he had somehow been loud enough, or Robbie just had very good instincts.

Or it was an auditory hallucination, but he'd take what he could get at this point.

 _Breathe. Just breathe_.

He became aware of himself in stages, none of them pleasant. First: his chest hurt. Second: his stomach hurt. Third: his head _hurt_. Fourth: everything else hurt, but not as much as those first three. He was trembling all over and his thoughts were hazy and buzzing at the edges.

For a moment he just lay there, letting Robbie's voice wash over him until the words started making sense again:

"––I, I don't know if I'm supposed to be telling you to _breathe_ , or –– I mean obviously you _know_ that, just, I'm not great at this improv monologuing thing –– that's a lie, I _am_ great at that, it's just that all the topics coming to mind right now are terrible –– just checking in again, are you there? Can you hear me? You don't have to try to answer if you can't, I can keep this up for hours, we both know how much I love the sound of my own voice..."

Sportacus considered trying to sit up. The very thought made him dizzy, so he settled for opening his eyes. "I'm –– I'm okay," he rasped, wincing at the sound of his own voice and the sharp pain in his throat. On the other end of the line, Robbie heaved a sigh of relief and then fell silent.

* * *

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156298166532/keep-talking-please-ack-i-had-a-niggling) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

Sportacus swallowed, clutching at his throat. "I... sorry."

" _Why_?" Robbie sounded aghast.

Sportacus frowned. It was getting harder to focus, harder to think straight. "Why –– what?"

"Why are you _sorry_?"

"This is –– I shouldn't be so..." Warning jabs of pain flared in his ribcage. He bit his lip, breathed deeply. Slowly. "Íþrótt has had this job for –– years now, and I know –– I know he knows what he's doing. I shouldn't get –– like this."

"Okay, sorry, which part should you _not_ worry about?" Robbie demanded, sounding personally affronted. "The part where your brother runs around risking his neck and laughing about it, or the part where you spend most days not knowing if he's alive or dead? That's –– that is a _perfectly_ reasonable thing to panic about, and even if it _wasn't_ –– I'm _guessing_ you know as well as I do, sometimes brains just _do_ that."

Oh.

Funny. He was sure he'd told himself the same thing, dozens of times. It sounded so much more... _reasonable_ in Robbie's voice. Less like an excuse. "That's..." _Breathe_. In for five. Out for ten. In for five. It was getting easier. "...Thank you. Robbie. I –– just, thanks."

"Wh–– for _what_?"

"That. Everything you just said."

"You –– don't. Just... You don't have to thank me."

"Okay, Robbie." He did. He really did. But Robbie sounded uncomfortable, which was the last thing Sportacus wanted, so he wouldn't push the subject.

The buzzing on the outskirts of his consciousness was creeping inwards now, blotting out thought and emotion. But that was fine. It wasn't panic; merely exhaustion.

"I think," he said, making an effort not to mumble, "I'm probably going to ––" _don't say pass out_ –– "fall asleep. Th –– um. I..." He sighed. "Good night, Robbie."

"Good night," Robbie said quietly.

Then there was a _click_.

"End call," Sportacus murmured, and let the encroaching blankness drag him under.

* * *

Robbie stared at his phone.

Had he –– _done_ that right? Any of it? At all? He'd thought he was doing okay at the start, and then suddenly –– and then it had been a _terrifying_ and ill-advised gamble, amplifying his own voice like that –– like Sportacus needed a reminder of _that_. Fine, it had _worked_ , but he was still a little bit horrified at himself for risking it. At least he'd had the presence of mind not to project the sound straight into the ship.

Even so, it could have gone... so, so very badly.

And he'd gotten a bit –– a bit more _abrasive_ , towards the end there, than he maybe should have, in hindsight. But he was used to playing _both_ sides of that sort of conversation, and, well. Sometimes that was what it took to get through to himself.

Sportacus had _thanked_ him, though, which... didn't really mean anything. Sportacus would have thanked him for saying _well, good luck with that_ and hanging up. He probably even would have _meant_ it.

The gratitude... didn't sit well. Settled in his stomach like a lead weight. Yes, thank you very much, Robbie, for talking someone through an anxiety attack at least partially brought on by _you_.

Oh, he didn't doubt that everything Sportacus had said about Íþróttaálfurinn was true, and had played a large part. He just also wasn't _oblivious_.

Sportacus had been... _off_ , lately. A little less obnoxiously cheerful, a little more frantically pretending to be. Understandable, given –– what had it been, _three_ near death experiences? In quick succession? Two of which were _directly Robbie's fault_? Íþróttaálfurinn's arrival may have been the final straw, but Robbie suspected this had been... inevitable, for some time now.

Still... He'd said he knew how to deal with it. So this wasn't an isolated occurrence –– unless he had miraculously managed to tell a convincing lie while actively hyperventilating.

_Really, we're gonna sit here and psychoanalyze him now?_

Robbie snapped out of his reverie. Pushed guiltily away from the scaffolding he'd been leaning on and returned his phone to its usual table, dropping the tangled loops of magical extension cord on top of it.

He had no business picking apart Sportacus's brain.

Besides –– even if he _was_ prone to anxiety attacks in the first place, it wasn't like that _absolved_ Robbie of anything. _Bleeding_ was something most people were prone to; that didn't make it not your fault when you _c_ _ut_ them.

 _Stop thinking about him. Leave him alone_.

He glanced around the lair. Contemplated his options.

Sleep was out of the question. He was wide awake now, thrumming with that specific variety of taut, vehement energy particular to sleep deprivation. It was enveloping him like a swarm of angry insects, nipping the exhaustion into retreat, numbing over his fried nerves.

In other words, business as usual.

Even _if_ sleep had still been a possibility –– well. He'd had enough of his own subconscious for one night.

Not to mention the risk of setting the crystal off again.

His eyes flicked to the television, but he dismissed the idea almost before it had formed. He wouldn't be able to follow anything with a real plot at this point, and nothing else would be enough to keep him engaged.

So.

Time to get to work.

There was no question of which project to start with, but –– _wh_ _ere_ to start? He'd leave the tricky part for tomorrow –– well, for today, but _later_ today, outside the lair; _shouldn't work on potentially life-threatening projects after dark_ and that probably included dabbling in anti-fae magic.

He flitted about the lair, hardly aware of his own footfalls, digging through boxes and drawers and cupboards, looking for nothing in particular but confident that he would eventually find _something_. Whatever it turned out to be, he'd know it when he saw it. He let his mind wander, trusting it to head in a productive direction now that it had a task to run with.

What should it _be_? Nothing that required spellwork to apply or remove; no, it would have to be an object; nothing he'd have to remember to hold onto –– a garment ward, then, but what kind of –– was he speaking out loud? Didn't matter. What _kind_ of garment?

Wasn't the type to wear jewelry, or at least not the type who'd ever bothered to pick any out for himself –– anyway, Robbie couldn't _give him jewelry_ , the implications were too –– and he seemed set on sticking with the one outfit, for the most part –– Robbie could respect that –– so any replacement should be visually identical or at least complementary –– hardly a challenge, but at least it was _something_ –– he did have that outfit he'd swiped as a disguise, come to think of it, but wards like this worked better if they were handmade –– and also, incidentally, not _stolen_ –– not one of his better plans; not _two_ of his better plans, honestly; he'd hoped the (ahem) _borrowed_ outfit might work out better than the one he'd put together from ( _ha_ ) whole cloth; the magic in that kind of disguise was bound to give out sooner than later without an exchange of personal items –– of course, something as small as a button, freely given, would have held together better than an entire stolen costume ––

–– but this wasn't a disguise, this was a _ward_ , and he'd had a point, hadn't he, with this thought spiral, what was it, what was the point –– _ah_!

He spun on his heel, marched across the lair, wrenched open the stuck door of an old cabinet, and beamed at the stacks of blue and white fabric.

"Perfect!"

He still had some material left over from that first, disastrous attempt at impersonating Sportacus. _That_ was the point.

Now. This would be easy enough, quick enough, to create with magic, but...

No. He'd do this the slow way. He could use the distraction.

He _did_ use magic to move the sewing machine and a bench into place at a worktable. And to summon his good scissors –– which he then had to duck, as they rose from a pile of scraps and came zooming straight at him, blades-first.

He retrieved them by hand, glaring around the room, just _daring_ any hidden witnesses to reveal themselves by laughing.

...Actually, he wouldn't put that past Glanni. At all.

 _Although_...

This _was_ , apparently, Robbie's own _Territory_.

He sat down at the worktable and unrolled a cloth tape measure, following the line of thought as he got to work.

Would Glanni be able to _do_ that? Teleport in, keep himself camouflaged? If Robbie didn't want him to? Passive distaste had been enough to keep people out of –– or at least very uncomfortable within –– his childhood home and various other... _family_ _establishments_ , regardless of species. But that had very much been a group effort, brought about by years of deliberate Ownership by multiple beings with varying levels of magical heritage.

No, he thought, cutting a strip of blue fabric and setting it aside for later. No, he very much doubted he could do much to keep Glanni out. Íþróttaálfurinn's decision to wait for an invitation had almost certainly been due to some twisted approximation of politeness... and a desire to make the most dramatically appropriate entrance possible. (The execution of which Robbie could, so far removed from the event, very _grudgingly_ respect.)

As far as he could tell –– which was mostly guesswork, considering that he _hadn't_ been able to tell –– the Territorial magic apparently permeating his lair must have been the result of instinct and a lack of awareness. It made sense that Sportacus had noticed it –– any raw Territorial power, however weak, would be opposed to the presence of beings who generated magic of a different kind. And Robbie's instincts had spent a great deal of time drawing very definite conclusions about _elves_ , followed by a year or so of being extremely unsure about Sportacus specifically.

He cut out some larger pieces of white, and turned on the sewing machine. His hands moved almost of their own volition, following a plan in the back of his mind while the rest of it continued to wander down the path it had apparently chosen for the time being.

The airship was definitely Elven Territory, though Sportacus didn't seem to have much of a personal connection to it –– and Robbie's own hatred for the thing was unrelated to magic and very _much_ related to heights. Humans could comfortably spend time in any sort of Territory that hadn't been specifically warded against them, and Robbie was... _mostly_ human. Territorial magic impacted _other magic_ , not the entire being whose magic it _was_ , and since neutral magic was a naturally occurring phenomenon, drawn from one's surroundings as opposed to inherently existing in members of any species, Robbie just –– didn't have that much for a Territory to work with. He couldn't _teleport_ to the ship, that being one of the few things he accomplished entirely through  _fae_ magic, but other than that –– any discomfort mostly manifested itself as just some additional vertigo. Which he would have been experiencing anyway. Because of  _being in the sky._

In theory, anyone with a Territory could designate specific Exceptions to the rule. It took some doing, but it was a fairly common practice –– the middle step between personal wards and a fully Cohabitative Territory. The process for _that_ was extremely complex, and Robbie dismissed the idea out of hand.

Because of the _complexity_. Not the stab of fear at the thought of his lair welcoming in any and all _elves_.

_You didn't even know it was a Territory in the first place until today. Yesterday. Whatever. Calm down._

Well. At any rate. He was sure he _couldn't_ pull off a shift of that magnitude; it was extremely unlikely he'd even be able to get it to recognize Sportacus as an Exception. Whatever power was in the place, it had built itself up over nearly a decade, running along the same tracks: _no elves._ The magical output he was capable of on a daily basis would never be enough to shift it.

Outranked by his own lair. It was almost funny.

Of course, sometimes Territorial Shifts happened automatically. Picked up a pattern of thought, behavior, emotion, whatever, and designated an Exception without any actual effort. That was generally how it went with relationships and families involving magical beings of two or more species: the magic picked up on the love, and did the rest of the work itself. The stronger the love, the stronger the ––

Robbie jumped to his feet, jolting himself violently out of his own thoughts. He stepped back from the worktable and stared at everything on it, consciously realizing for the first time ––

–– he was making _gloves_.

Of course he was making gloves.

He felt dizzy.

It had... meant something. Somehow. To Robbie. That conversation on the path, _coping mechanisms_ , right before it all went to hell. And it had meant something that Sportacus had drawn a connection between his need for the gloves and Robbie's need to break things. And it meant ––

 _Nothing_ , it meant _nothing_ , that Robbie was making _gloves_. Of _course_ he was making gloves; they were the newest addition to Sportacus's outfit and therefore the piece he was least likely to mind having to swap out for something new; they were _practical_ , he always wore them and it wasn't like they could _fall off_ ; moreover, Sportacus wouldn't be able to _touch_ him and that was –– _fine_ , why would he _want_ to, he _wouldn't_ , maybe now he'd stop dramatically clamping a hand over Robbie's mouth instead of just telling him to shut up –– _shut up, shut_ _ **up ––**_

He was making gloves because that made _sense_ and he had been thinking about automatic Exception designations because he'd been thinking about Territorial Shifts in general and _not_ because he thought ––

"Don't," he hissed, glaring at the half-sewn bits of fabric. " _Don't_. If that was going to work it _would_ have. Whatever you think you _feel_ , it's clearly not –– it _shouldn't_ be –– you have no _right_ to –– look at the problems you've _already_ caused for him _and_ yourself, you really want to throw l–– l–– _that_ into the mix? _No_. This is going to _work_ , everything is going to be _fine_ , and _you're_ going to get on with saving the town so you can go back to tormenting it and _never thinking about this again_."

The words hung in the air. Not quite an echo, just a brief, ringing reminder of their presence.

And then the empty lair drank them up, and Robbie was left standing in silence. He almost wouldn't have minded an interruption.

When it became apparent that there wasn't going to be one, he sat back down.

"...So _there_ ," he said to the sewing machine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COMMUNICATE, BOYS. W elp, they're trying. One step forward, one step back.
> 
> ETA: Celepom has drawn [a beautiful comic](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156298166532) illustrating the end of the phone conversation and i am in p a i n
> 
> Double ETA: And then Stuffdone made [this](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156320919162) and i am scrEAMING
> 
> End ETA
> 
> me: elvish borrows heavily from icelandic  
> also me: [has roughly Zero Percent of the linguistics knowledge necessary to invent enough elvish to use in-story] s orry feel free to imagine any of that counting (or sport's and íþrótt's thoughts in general throughout the fic) as being in elvish.
> 
> thank you for your patience, i didn't realize how long this chapter would take! it turns out writing an anxiety attack is not always the best idea when you are... stressed out and prone to having them lmao. i kept having to leave it and come back. the joke is double on me though, i'd never seriously tried the counting breaths thing but i researched it for sportacus and now it... works lol. thanks for the coping mechanism, sport, now plz be kinder to yourself. ...i say, as the one wr iting y ou.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, thank you all as ever for sticking with this story! Sorry that this took over a week and... isn't very long; it was originally the first part of a much longer chapter but it ended up making more sense to cut off where it does. the next chapter is in the works and it is Very Gay i can promise u that.
> 
> A l s o can I just. The response to the last chapter both here and on tumblr is possibly the most emotional I've ever been while reading comments. Sportacus with anxiety is Important to me and it seems he is to a lot of you as well, and I'm glad we are all in this together and I am super glad if the last chapter helped anybody out. <3
> 
> **Another art roundup:**
> 
> Celepom has made me a) laugh out loud twice with [perfect expressions](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156377728357/glanni-isnt-even-there-yet-and-already) and [comedic timing](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156341696392/not-from-into-the-light-this-time-its-from-the) +clutch at my heart bc Sport With Gloves, and b) clutch at my heart again bc [_Sport,,, buddy,,,,_](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156298166532/keep-talking-please-ack-i-had-a-niggling)
> 
> Stuffdone has drawn this [DELIGHTFULLY TERRIFYING](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156320919162/well-thats-not-unsettling-at-all-nope-nah-ah) representation of Robbie recounting his dream, which literally made me clap my hands in glee
> 
> Steampoweredace has drawn [a scene](http://steampoweredace.tumblr.com/post/156545678278/so-technically-something-from-so-call-us-even) from the first story in this series and look at that periscope. look at it. im in love with that periscope, it looks like if it had a nose it would be wrinkling it in disbelief.
> 
> And Plotdesigner has written a wonderful [crossover fic](http://defectivevorta.tumblr.com/post/156336385734/publishable-if-u-want-robbies-crossover) that literally threw me back in time several years and made me grin a lot
> 
> also i am still a puddle of emotional glop over the fact that people have been drawing (and now writing!) stuff for this, like. like. i don't even know how to express how thrilled and grateful i am.
> 
> On a related note, announcement! The above artists + Pandemi-Doodles and Fisheeart have v kindly granted permission for their art to be inserted in the text itself, so past stories / chapters now have illustrations!

It was a nice day. The sun was shining down, not too hot, the threat of autumn right around the corner. Birds were chirping, there was a pleasant breeze, and Íþróttaálfurinn really wanted to punch something.

He did his best to curtail the anger, redirecting it into energy and burning off as much as possible on his way to Town Hall.

What with one thing and another, his night hadn't exactly been _restful_ , but he was... fine. Glæpur had teleported out shortly after their conversation, leaving Íþróttaálfurinn with worries to duck and letters to write –– that first task becoming much more of a challenge once he'd finished the second. He'd nabbed a few hours of sleep early in the morning, which was _plenty_ , and more than he'd sometimes had to work with under much more dangerous circumstances.

So he was _functional_. He just... wasn't in the best mood.

The town hall seemed to loom over him. He glared at it, mentally gauged the distance between two of the pillars, then took a running start and bounded neatly upwards, getting enough of a grip to scramble up between them. Settling with his shoulders pressed to one pillar and his feet securely propped against another, he shut his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.

* * *

_[Art](http://steampoweredace.tumblr.com/post/156606934308/defectivevorta-also-a-close-up-of-ith) (close up at link) by [Steampoweredace](http://steampoweredace.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

Calm down. Focus. There was nothing, currently, that _required_ punching. Nothing he could usefully channel anger into –– it would only beget _more_ anger, trap him in a loop until he either exploded at someone who didn't deserve it or turned it against himself, neither of which was an appealing option.

He told himself it was too soon to be worried and too _pointless_ to be frustrated by the fact that none of his contacts had gotten back to him yet. They were busy people and it would take time to find a safe place to respond from, or a safe moment to even read what he'd sent. And that was assuming they had even  _received_ the messages.

"Oh, my –– hello up there!"

Unstartled –– he'd felt the approach of human energy; teeming (as much as a human aura could be) with curiosity and a positive sort of anxiety –– Íþróttaálfurinn opened his eyes and looked down. He took in the blue hair, the red suit, and the cell phone, and it was suddenly laughter he was having to suppress instead of anger, as his mind's eye briefly overlaid an idle doodle from the margins of one of his brother's letters.

"Hello!" He pushed forward, swung once around the side of the pillar he'd had his feet up against, landed in a crouch, sprang to his feet, and stuck out a hand. "You must be Miss Busybody!"

"Oh, please," she said, shifting the phone to her shoulder so she could reciprocate the handshake. "Call me Bessie."

There was an inquisitive sound from the phone, which she then flatly addressed: "No, not _you_ , Milford –– I mean –– oh, I'll call you _back_." She jostled the phone against the side of her own head, apparently practiced enough at this procedure to successfully hang up. " _You_ must be the one all the children were so excited about –– Ithrotalmurin?"

"Please," Íþróttaálfurinn said, smiling a bright, polite smile and internally wincing at the mangled pronunciation of his name. "Call me Íþrótt." _And let go of my hand_.

She finally did, depositing her phone in her purse. Íþróttaálfurinn suspected it wouldn't stay there long.

"Íþrótt," she said, carefully, and then quirked a smile. "Did Sportacus name himself after you, then?"

"Ah, well ––" Taken a bit aback, Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, and rubbed at the back of his neck. It wasn't _rude_ , per se, to inquire about the origins of a common name. It just generally wasn't a conversation starter upon first meeting someone. "Not exactly? I think we both just sort of named _ourselves_ after the same things."

...Was he supposed to ask _her_ if –– oh, why not. "And, ah, 'Busybody,' is that...?"

"Old family tradition," she said cheerfully, and Íþróttaálfurinn tried to ignore the brief, barely there waver in her aura, and the blank look that crossed her face. Then the phone rang from inside her purse, and she was back to normal: brimming with something between agitation and enthusiasm. "And it's _accurate_ , too, I've got to get going, I have _so_ much to do –– it was nice meeting you!"

She was halfway down the steps before she'd finished talking, already digging her phone out of her purse. "Hello? Oh –– _yes_ , hello, Mx. Hyperbyte –– no, yes, don't _worry_ , they're just at the playground –– I _suppose_ I have time to stop and check, but I'm sure they're fine –– yes, all _right_ , but in that case I really must be going –– oh but first I've _got_ to tell you, you'll _never_ guess who I just met –– oh. Well. Lucky guess."

Íþróttaálfurinn watched her until she turned a corner. Then he let out the breath he'd been holding, squared his shoulders, and walked calmly into Town Hall.

...Probably should have knocked first. Sue him, he was out of practice at –– well, civilization in general.

He rapped his knuckles belatedly against the doorframe once he was inside, and the mayor jolted out of his seat, flinging a stack of paperwork. "Oh!"

"Ah –– sorry to barge in!" Íþróttaálfurinn lunged forward, snatching fluttering sheets out of the air while the mayor scrambled to collect more of them from the floor. "I just thought I should –– uh, where do you want these?"

"Oh, just anywhere's fine," the mayor said cheerfully, dumping the papers he'd collected onto his desk and patting them into a haphazard stack before sitting back down.

"...Right," said Íþróttaálfurinn, adding his own papers to the top and trying to discretely straighten the whole thing. "Sorry about that. I just thought I should introduce myself."

"Ah, yes!" The mayor leaned forward over his desk and extended a hand. "You must be ––"

"You can call me Íþrótt," Íþróttaálfurinn said hurriedly, shaking the proffered hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Oh, of course, it's very nice to meet you, too! _I_ am Mayor Meanswell. On behalf of –– well, everyone, I suppose, welcome to LazyTown!"

"Thank you! It's..." Too big. Too empty. Too quiet. " _Lovely_ ," Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly, with a bright smile. "A beautiful town."

"Oh, yes, it _is_ , isn't it?" Mayor Meanswell's voice and aura were both bubbling over with delight and pride –– not pride in himself. Pride in his town, and his neighbors. Íþróttaálfurinn felt vaguely ill. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, of course!"

"Thank you." Did he sound –– right? Okay? He was mostly focusing on keeping the smile on his face from either faltering or looking too... fixed. He was starting to feel –– very false. Relying on memory and deliberate choice, instead of instinct, to act as he normally did. "I'll –– try not to impose."

"Not at all!" The mayor waved this concern aside, nearly knocking over the papers again. "Any friend of Sportacus is a friend of ours!"

Ah. Well. _That_ he could smile about. "My brother seems to be very popular here."

"Of course!" Mayor Meanswell beamed at him. "He's been a _wonderful_ influence on the town, the children especially."

"I'm sure he has been." Okay. Yes. He could do this. There was still _one_ genuine feeling to hold onto. This town was a skin-crawling juxtaposition of unrelenting cheer and inescapable emptiness, but he could stand here in front of its brainwashed mayor and at least be proud of his little brother. "I was just on my way to go and find him, actually." Well, he _could_ stand here. That didn't mean he _had_ to. "Very nice meeting you, thank you for the hospitality!"

He all but bolted out the door, and hoped the mayor would put it down to energy, or enthusiasm for exploring the town, or just. Anything.

He shot down the steps, took off in the opposite direction of where Bessie had disappeared to, and gave his emotions free reign to do as they pleased, as long as that involved sorting themselves out and figuring out what the hell they were, exactly.

This was _getting_ to him.

It really shouldn't have been. Yes, these were _nice people_ , and something terrible had happened and was _continuing_ to happen to them, but he'd seen... worse.

Much worse.

He felt... too _close_ to it, almost. Which didn't make sense. He'd never even _been_ here, his only connection to this place was ––

He skidded to a halt near a low wall and leaned heavily against it, resting his weight on his hands and staring blankly down at them while he caught his breath, and caught up to his own racing thoughts.

He _was_ too close to this.

Because of the _letters_.

It wasn't that they were the only letters he got –– his parents wrote when they could, various old friends wrote when they remembered –– but Sportacus wrote _consistently_. Which was especially important when there was every possibility that any given message might be delayed by days or weeks or months, or never show up at all. Going that long without contact from what he still caught himself thinking of as the _normal_ world, it... was too easy to forget that he was supposed to be a part of it. That it was all still there and that he did intend to return to it, at some point. Eventually. When (if) ( _when_ ) he'd done enough.

So he saved the letters. When he could. Read them and reread them; practically memorized them. He'd be holed up in a cave halfway up a mountain, or stranded in the only dry spot of an underwater alcove, or camped out deep in the densest patch of forest he could find, completely alone or with only the company of others just as disconnected as himself –– but he also had the letters. And for the past couple of years, that meant he'd had, in some sense at least, _this_ place. These people. He felt like he _knew_ them.

* * *

_[Art](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156628073832/%C3%AD%C3%BEr%C3%B3tt-are-u-ok-quick-sketch-from-the) by [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

This had been one of the few scraps of normalcy he'd allowed himself to cling to, and it... _wasn't_. And he hadn't _noticed_. All those letters, all that time, and he'd never once put two and two together. He could hide behind the excuse of the glamour –– _glamours_ –– all he liked, but even _Glæpur_ had managed to outthink––

"Okay," he breathed, pushing away from the wall. " _Stop_ it." That kind of thinking would get him nowhere.

At any rate, it was... good, at least. To know that things still _could_ get to him. A certain amount of on-the-job distance was necessary for survival, of course –– his own and other people's –– but one of his most prevalent worries over the past several years had been the creeping suspicion that he was slowly becoming the kind of person who could look at things like this and _not_  feel even a little bit horrified.

 _Enough_.

He shook his head once, sharply, slamming his mind shut against any and all morbid, gloomy, angry, or otherwise negative thoughts.

It had sounded like Bessie had said the kids were at the playground. He'd go find them –– which probably meant finding Sportacus, and possibly Robbie, and the three of them could pretend everything was normal and fine until the sun went down, and then they could make _plans_.

Yes, he'd missed a lot of clues. He'd failed this place, and everyone in it, including his own brother, for –– much longer than just those two years. As long as Óséðurskuggi had been here, and even before that. As long as they'd both been in the Order.

But: he was here _now_. He could _help_ now.

That was all that mattered.

That was all there was.

* * *

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156649921997/coping-mechanisms-this-was-going-to-end-in-a-joke) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Íþrótt: [leaps over logic hurdles to blame himself for something that happened while he was hundreds of miles away and literally brainwashed into not thinking about it] parkour
> 
> also, Bessie and Milford are Finally Here, i'm. [falls on floor] i've been trying to figure out how and when to bring them into this for So Many Chapters bc i was worried it would look like i was leading up to them not actually existing or something lmao.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!
> 
> 1) Thank you all as ever! <3 I meant to link to [this](http://defectivevorta.tumblr.com/post/156291282214/ive-said-it-before-but-ill-say-it-again-i-am) last time and forgot so here it is now!
> 
> 2) I can't tell how clear I have or haven't made this (I'm not used to working with so much Lore lol), but "common names" as opposed to True Names are not an Elf Thing, they're an Everybody Thing in this AU. Just wanted to clear up any confusion because it's not really supposed to be a plot point or anything, just... a thing.
> 
> 3) all right i'm just. going to own up to the fact that among other things my [narcoleptic sportacus headcanon](http://defectivevorta.tumblr.com/post/156647838244/the-real-question-is-why-the-fuck-does-the-sun) is all over this chapter.
> 
> 4) Art! So much art??? I'm. *lies down*
> 
> It has been days and I am still giggling about Robbie's expressions in [this comic](http://pandemi-doodles.tumblr.com/post/156704807509/another-scene-from-defectivevortas-catch-your) by Pandemi-Doodles
> 
> And I am still iNTENSELY EMOTIONAL about [Íþrótt](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/156628073832/%C3%AD%C3%BEr%C3%B3tt-are-u-ok-quick-sketch-from-the) in this piece by Stuffdone
> 
> And LIKEWISE EMOTIONAL about everyone in [this piece](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/156649921997/coping-mechanisms-this-was-going-to-end-in-a-joke) by Celepom
> 
> I also remain _delighted_ by Íþrótt parkour-sulking in Steampoweredace's piece [here](http://steampoweredace.tumblr.com/post/156606934308/defectivevorta-also-a-close-up-of-ith)
> 
>  _And_ you can check out some wonderful pictures [here](http://defectivevorta.tumblr.com/tagged/zirwis) in my tag for Zirwis, who has been sending them in for each chapter :)

Sportacus woke with a splitting headache, a dim awareness that he'd been half-waking up repeatedly for the past several hours, and an almost overwhelming desire to pull the blanket over his head and go back to sleep for about six years.

 _Almost_ overwhelming.

A glass of water went a long way towards helping his head –– and his throat, which he hadn't consciously realized was hurting at all until it started to improve. He kept his mind carefully blank, focusing intently on stretching out his sore muscles and throwing himself into a marginally more subdued variation on his usual morning routine. He decided on a quick shower –– cold –– refreshing. It left him feeling... _nearly_ normal. For a few minutes.

He toweled his hair dry, braced himself, and said, "Okay. What time is it?"

"Eleven fifty-one AM," the AI chimed.

Sportacus allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "Well. That could have been worse." It was much later in the morning than he normally liked to start his day, but at least it _was_ still morning. If only just.

He dressed in silence, waiting to see where his thoughts would go. Mostly they just... didn't. Which would have been _fine_ , honestly, except that he recognized the blank numbness trying to creep over him. " _Hey_ ," he murmured, pulling on a glove and then knocking twice against his own forehead. "Don't do that."

Now, what was he forgetting to –– hat. Goggles. There. Yes. Fine. He'd already eaten, right? Yes. Still felt like he was forgetting something, but –– no. Drop it. Out of tasks. Out of excuses. Time to leave. Get out, get out, get _out_.

As an afterthought, he settled the anti-magic shield into his backpack before slipping it on. He could feel a faint energy emanating from it, but the magic of the backpack itself seemed to mostly contain its effects. That was fine; he wouldn't actually need it until he got to Robbie's place.

...Which, he suddenly realized, was exactly where he was planning to go.

"That's... not a good idea," he said, crossing his arms.

... _Why_ wasn't it a good idea? They probably did need to talk, after –– well, at any rate, Sportacus had said he'd help Robbie untangle his latest dream.

"He might not even be up yet," Sportacus protested, glaring around at the ship as though _it_ was the one arguing with him, and not his own common sense. (As it happened, the AI was a pretty good judge of when he was looking for conversation versus when he was just thinking aloud.)

Robbie _might_ not be awake yet –– or he might _still_ _be_ awake. All Sportacus had to do was show up and knock –– lightly enough not to wake him if he was asleep.

"I should go see the children first," he said, rocking back on his heels.

 _Should_ he? Really? In this state? When he was very likely to just –– freeze up, in the face of that much interaction? In theory, he was all for being open about mental health issues; it was important that the kids know they could _talk_ to him, after all. In practice... he could already hear the rapid-fire questions about where he'd been all day and why he was being so quiet and _are you feeling okay, can we help_ ––

Deep breath.

No. He didn't want to scare them, or make them feel bad. He'd go see them later, once he was feeling a little more... settled.

Maybe he should just ––

" _No_ ," he said sharply.

No.

He couldn't just stay up here alone all day. Bad idea. _Worst_ idea. And if anyone was unlikely to question him being a bit _off_ today...

_"–– look, I get. Days. Where I can't deal with –– people, for one thing, including myself, but I'm always **here** , so. I've learned to get along with me."_

...it was definitely Robbie.

"Ladder!" Sportacus ordered, before he could get pulled back into the loop of second-guessing himself.

He climbed down, keeping a careful eye out for the kids, but they were nowhere in sight. His stomach fluttered uneasily, and it had nothing to do with the distance to the ground.

"Nope," he said firmly, stepping off of the rungs and sliding the rest of the way down. "If they were in trouble, the crystal would tell me. Stop it."

He moved to double check the time and realized what he _had_ , in fact, forgotten: armguards.

" _Oh_ , for ––"

No. Nope. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and did not allow himself to kick the ladder.

Then he opened his eyes and contented himself with glaring at it instead.

This was... fine. It didn't matter, really. Considering the kind of morning he _could_ be having, had been _braced_ for after last night –– the armguards didn't _matter_.

And if he went back up to his ship right now, he didn't trust himself not to stay there.

"Ladder!" he called up, and then, before he could stop himself: "Don't let me back in until 7 tonight, unless someone's safety depends on it!"

So _there_.

Thus defeated on its latest front, his mind immediately threw him back into worrying about the kids.

(So _there_.)

The doubts and self-recriminations chased him all the way to the billboard –– _would_ the crystal tell him if they needed him? Could he really be sure of that? Hadn't he been thinking just last night about the fact that it sometimes seemed to have a mind of its own? Why hadn't he bothered to look for them with his telescope before leaving the ship? What did he think he was _doing_?

 _Shut up, shut up, shut up_.

He reached the hatch, squared his shoulders, and knocked.

The periscope, as per its norm, popped up out of nowhere. "Yeah, yeah, come on in –– actually," Robbie cut himself off. "Don't. I'll come up."

"Um. Okay." Sportacus bit his tongue, fought a brief battle with himself which he both won and lost, and said in a rush, "Can you do me a favor first? Uh, not –– I mean –– just. A normal favor, nothing... Binding."

"...Yes?"

"Could... you check on the kids?"

The periscope vanished.

After a few beats of silence, it shot back up. "They're all at the sports field. So's your brother. _Miraculously_ , everything seems to be going fine."

Sportacus exhaled, slowly. "Thanks."

"Yep."

The periscope vanished again, and soon enough the hatch was being flung open and Robbie was standing upright in the chute, looking... about as exhausted as Sportacus felt.

He winced in sympathy. "I'm guessing you didn't get back to sleep?"

Robbie gave a noncommittal shrug. "Nothing new there."

"Um." Sportacus rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of something to –– _anything_ to –– he had to _broach_ the subject, right? Robbie hadn't wanted gratitude, but they couldn't just... not _acknowledge_ it. Could they?

"I –– um, about –– about what ––"

"Hey." Robbie raised an eyebrow at him. "Remember when I kicked you out so I could have a violent meltdown, and you didn't make it weird? I'm not gonna make this weird."

* * *

_[Art](https://amolecularmachine.tumblr.com/post/158916091474/sooooo-ive-been-reading-catch-your-breath-there) by [Amolecularmachine](https://amolecularmachine.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

That startled a laugh out of him. "I –– okay, yes, let's... not. Did you want to discuss your dream, then?"

"Maybe later," Robbie said, waving a hand dismissively and beginning to clamber out of the chute. "I've got something for you."

Sportacus blinked. "You what?"

"Well, they're sort of Some Assembly Required, but." Robbie leaned back against the ladder and Sportacus realized he was holding something in one hand, which hadn't been visible when he'd been in the chute.

Gloves. Fingerless gloves.

"Here," he muttered, shoving them at Sportacus without looking at him.

"I –– um. They're... very nice," Sportacus said, bewildered. They _were_ very nice. The material was smooth, and felt both flexible and durable, and the pattern was a near reverse of the rest of his outfit –– white with a blue stripe down the back from the base of each index finger, and a thinner, black stripe within that. "Thank you?"

"They're not just _decorative_ ," Robbie said, rolling his eyes. "I tried to ward them myself, thought maybe I could cheat the system a little as long as I stuck with neutral magic, but. No go."

Sportacus's train of thought jumped several tracks in its hurry to catch up. "What –– you –– you tried to make an _anti–fae ward_?"

"I'm _perfectly fine_ ," Robbie said hastily, hands up, placating. "It just... didn't work. You'll have to do that bit yourself, which, uh –– don't take this the wrong way, but... _can_ you?"

Sportacus blinked down at the gloves and waited to have –– any kind of emotional response to this situation, at all. None was forthcoming, so he looked back up at Robbie and said, "I've warded things before, but usually with elven magic. If these were prepped for neutral, I'm, ah... a bit out of practice."

"Right." Robbie sighed, hunching further against the ladder and massaging above his eyes with one hand. "I _figured_ , neutral was just all I could –– of _course_ you're out of practice," he muttered, "why would you ever _need_ neutral magic."

"Healing," Sportacus said quietly. "Other people, I mean."

" _Ah_. Well." Robbie straightened up, cracking his neck and eyeing Sportacus thoughtfully. "So you at least know the basics."

"Yes?" He hadn't had to heal anybody in –– _years_ , and he hadn't actually practiced neutral wards since his initial Order training, but sure. Basics. Yes.

Robbie was still studying him. "Are you ––" He cut himself off abruptly. "I'm sure the brats are wondering where you are, we could always do this later."

Oh.

Sportacus felt his face heating up as he realized: Robbie was giving him an out. Letting him know it was fine if he wasn't up for this, without making him actually say it.

He tilted his head, giving the matter some honest thought. He was exhausted, yes, and emotionally numb apart from residual anxiety spikes, _yes_ , and he had only the vaguest idea of what he was actually being asked to _do_ , yes, _but_.

It _did_ sound like an effective distraction.

"Let's do it now," he said.

"All right." Robbie was suddenly all business –– voice clipped, movements precise. He pushed off from the ladder and nodded stiffly at the ground between them, hands clasped behind his back. "Put the gloves on the ground." His next words came out in a rush, sounding rehearsed. "Standard mix of verbal and physical components would probably work best unless you'd prefer one over the other –– what language do you want to use? I _might_ be able to figure out enough Elvish by way of Icelandic to help with the incantation, but I'd do better with that or English if you're not particularly confident in your thaumaturgical linguistics."

"Um." Sportacus set the gloves down carefully and then straightened up, trying to think. "...Remind me what difference the language makes?"

"It doesn't, for some people. The more connected you are to the words, the sharper the magic."

"Right." Sportacus frowned. Faculties like critical thinking were beginning to wake up and stretch. "Uh –– do we _want_ sharp? I mean, what if –– what if I bump into you or something?"

"It wouldn't do much." Robbie sounded amused. "Wouldn't do _anything_ , as long as I didn't touch too close to the gloves themselves. It's not a _combat_ ward."

"What if my _hand_ bumps into you?" Sportacus persisted. _What if I forget I'm wearing these? I kept forgetting about **yours**._

Robbie heaved a theatrical sigh. "Okay, Sporta _martyr_ , which language do you feel the _least_ connection with?"

"English," Sportacus said instantly, and then cracked a small smile. "Icelandic is close enough to Elvish, it... makes me homesick."

"Ah." Robbie seemed to flounder briefly for words. "Well, that would... definitely give the magic a boost. English it is, then. What do you want to say? I can offer suggestions, but it has to come from you, since you're doing the actual warding. It has to get _your_ point across."

"Um..." Thinking. Words. Right. Not his strong suit at the moment, but at least he had a specific subject to work with, right? Yes. Okay. He could do this.

"'Protect'?" he hazarded.

"Hmm." Robbie crossed his arms, tilting his head indecisively. "Not bad. A little too..." He lifted one hand and wavered it back and forth in the air. " _I_ _nterpretable_. Protect how? They could drag you out of the lair, _that_ would protect you."

"R-right. Um." Sportacus wracked his brain, mostly coming up with images and filing quickly through all the words that they conjured up.

Sudden flash of memory: the blue knight. Shining armor –– no –– knight –– no –– don't panic, there's nothing to panic about –– " _Guard_? No ––" he cut himself off before Robbie had even opened his mouth.

No. Back to the armor. No, not the armor ––

"Shield," Sportacus said firmly, and in the back of his mind something _click_ _ed_ quietly into place. It sent an odd, tingling feeling up and down the base of his skull and the back of his neck. It was familiar, and similar to what he felt when accessing his own magic, with the added, eerie impression that there was someone standing just behind him.

Robbie was grinning at him. " _There_ you go."

Sportacus tried to grin back. "Now what?"

"Now we figure out the movements before you go throwing actual _magic_ around," Robbie said. "Again, I can _help_ , but it's got to come from you. Whatever we come up with has to get across in your own brain _exactly_ what you want these gloves to do. You have to –– _shape_ the incantation."

"Shape it. Right."

This, he remembered. He'd learned some basic starting gestures for healing, and had been encouraged to expand on them from there –– personalize them. It was rare to find any two serious neutral magic users who _didn't_ perform the exact same spells with noticeable differences in technique.

So. Movement. _This_ , he could focus on. He had enjoyed finding his own spin to put on the healing spells, could remember the satisfaction of finding the moves that worked.

"You have three concepts to get across," Robbie said quietly, and Sportacus realized he had shut his eyes at some point. He didn't open them, just listened as Robbie spoke. "The first move should solidify the _shield_ idea. Then you need something for _fae_ _––_ and something to let it know that's what it's working against, not _for_."

Shield.

Eyes still shut, Sportacus pictured it –– simple, circular, slightly convex. He reached out –– splayed his fingers and dragged his hands over the surface, trying to convey its presence, its shape.

"That's..." Robbie sounded uncertain.

Sportacus opened his eyes, concentration broken. "Hm?"

"I mean, _yes_ ," Robbie said slowly, drawing the _yes_ out into two cynical syllables, "that gets the _point_ across, but it's too –– we're warding some gloves, not a _truck_. Think smaller. _Move_ smaller."

Sportacus looked at his hands, which were hovering about shoulder-width apart, and then back at Robbie. "How much smaller?"

"Just..." Robbie's face scrunched up in irritation. "Just –– _here_."

He stepped around the gloves and laid his hands on Sportacus's wrists, and Sportacus –– nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd completely forgotten he wasn't wearing his armguards. Robbie's hands were freezing, contrasting sharply with the heat suddenly radiating from the points of contact.

"Sorry," Robbie muttered. "Just, I'm not –– very good at explaining this kind of thing."

"It's fine," Sportacus said, about an octave higher than intended.

"...Right. So." Robbie gripped his wrists loosely and pulled his hands closer together, until they were nearly touching. "Try not to let them get any farther apart than this, or the magic will just –– it –– wouldn't be good."

"Okay," Sportacus said automatically, and then made himself silently repeat everything Robbie had just said, because it was probably important and he definitely hadn't been paying attention to it. Robbie was still _touching_ him. Which shouldn't have mattered, at _all_ , they'd touched plenty of times and up until _very recently_ that had never been a big deal ––

"You feeling okay?"

" _Yep,_ " Sportacus croaked, bit his tongue, and cleared his throat. "I'm fine." His heart was hammering and his face was on _fire_ , but –– yes, actually, he was. Fine. He felt very... disconnected from this entire experience, like he was watching from a distance as his own body tried to rely on rote memory alone to navigate an emotional response.

All right, not _entirely_ emotional.

He wrenched his gaze up and away from both of their hands at apparently the exact same moment as Robbie, and the two of them got briefly stuck staring at each other. Some color had risen in Robbie's cheeks but he looked otherwise unfazed, which –– was doing nothing to _help_ , honestly, the whole effect was very ––

"Um," Sportacus stammered, looking back down at his hands, "the –– so, the, uh, the magic?"

"... _Right_ ," said Robbie, and when Sportacus risked a glance back up he was _smirking_. "The _magic_." He let go, stepped back around the gloves, and crossed his arms. "I'll, ah..." He quirked an eyebrow. "...keep my hands to myself, so you can refocus."

Sportacus shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and decided the best possible course of action at this point was to just pretend Robbie had _never_ _said_ _that_. He was already having to force himself not to clutch at his own wrists –– his whole body was tingling, sharply aware of both the atypically exposed skin and the sudden loss of contact.

 _F_ _ocus_.

On the _magic_.

...Okay, first maybe focus on his own heart rate.

He breathed in for a count of five and nearly burst out laughing at himself, exhaled for ten, inhaled for five –– _shield_.

Shield.

Emotion drained away, muted under the less complicated prospect of a straightforward task.

Keeping his hands carefully within the allotted space, he moved them around to encompass the shape of a sphere. Gestured minimally at himself, up and down motion, then closed his hands into fists and pressed them tight together, thumbs side by side on top.

Again, in the back of his mind: a soft, inarguable _click_. The neutral magic regathered around him and pressed in closer, more insistent.

"Good," Robbie said quietly. "Now tell it what it's keeping out. You can –– go a bit bigger for that. Outside of that space."

Nodding minutely, Sportacus opened his hands and pulled them apart until they had cleared the edges of the imagined sphere.

No _click_ this time, just a sense of –– expectation.

 _Fae_. He needed something to signify _fae_.

Without even thinking about it, he snapped his fingers.

Instantly, he knew he'd got it wrong. The feeling in the back of his mind was –– off, somehow. Off kilter. Off color. Off pitch.

He opened his eyes and had to blink away sudden vertigo. "That... wasn't right."

"Well, there's a reason we're _practicing_ first," Robbie pointed out, but the flippancy in his voice didn't quite manage to overshadow the unease. He was staring at one of Sportacus's hands, though he looked away quickly when he seemed to notice Sportacus following his gaze. "What was wrong about it?"

"I think..." Flashes of the woods. Not actually upsetting, not right now, just –– there. Explanatory. _You're going to fight me_ _,_ _or you're going to_ _ **die**_ _._ Robbie, annoyed, banishing eraser shavings from the floor of his lair. "I _think_ ," Sportacus continued, slowly, "I –– I don't think of that as _fae_. I think of that as... you."

"Hm." Robbie knocked a loose fist lightly against his own mouth, drumming the fingers of his other hand thoughtfully against his elbow. "That _might_ be for the best," he said, looking everywhere but at Sportacus, voice a very measured sort of upbeat. "I mean," he added, splaying his hands in an inquisitive kind of shrug. "How many other Fae Territories are you likely to run into in the near future?"

"Robbie!" That disconnect from his own feelings wavered, and Sportacus dropped his hands to his sides and stepped completely out of the stance he'd settled into, utterly indignant. "I'm not wearing something that is _anti-you_!"

"Suit yourself," Robbie said, clucking his tongue disdainfully. "You'll need another gesture, then. I'd suggest going through the first couple again, that tends to help."

"I –– I ––" Sportacus clamped his mouth shut, not trusting himself not to say something... unwise. The fact that Robbie was apparently all for the idea of him going around wearing an _anti-Robbie ward_ was –– probably worth a conversation, but it was a conversation he doubted either of them had had enough sleep to deal with at the moment. "Sure," he said at last, resigned, feeling that layer of apathy creep back over him. "Thanks."

He shut his eyes, took himself through the initial gestures, felt them slot into place at the back of his mind, and again paused with his hands apart, outside of the shielded sphere.

So far he'd been trying to avoid too much conscious thought, wary of trapping himself in endless questioning –– it had been... a while, since his last major anxiety attack, but he knew the turns his mind tended to take afterwards, and he knew not to trust the numb calm currently blanketing most of his thoughts. It would be too easy, in this state, for frustration to turn into panic.

But leaving this up to instinct hadn't _worked_.

So.

Fae magic.

He knew... less about it than he should have. There were so _many_ different kinds of magic –– as a child, he'd learned the basics of the most regionally common types, but he hadn't pursued the subject much beyond that in his later schooling. It had all seemed too... theoretical.

Mostly what he remembered was the crash course Íþrótt had given him, after they had come up with their... somewhat less than brilliantly thought out plan for Sportacus to take his place in the Order. A solid week of memorizing facts and forms and histories, most of which he'd held onto just long enough to get through that aspect of the initiation test and be approved for official training, after which: _g_ _one_.

But.

 _Think_.

Sense memory was a powerful thing, and he'd been... So tired, hadn't he? A very specific kind of tired –– _this_ kind of tired –– the kind that brought with it a ringing, _tight_ feeling, like a headache all over his body.

Three days awake, or at least –– two nights of bad sleep, interrupted. Reading. Words starting to swim, hard to keep his eyes open. Íþrótt pacing, spouting facts and figures that tangled dizzyingly with the ones on the page. _You'll mostly be dealing with humans anyway –– with a few exceptions most types of magic can be grouped into three categories based on –– no listen all you need to know is –– subcategories within the broader ––_ _would you forget the_ _ **books**_ _, I_ _ **know**_ _what's on it_ _––_ _externalized, internalized, and both ––_ _just don't let them get to you, they_ _ **stare**_ _the whole time you take the test but I guarantee they're bored out of their_ _skulls_ _, I know I will be ––_ _suggested in recent years to be more of a sliding scale than separate categories –– seriously Sport I'm pretty sure that book is_ _ **older**_ _than the Order_ _–– one of the more popular comparisons for the sake of example ––_

Compare and contrast: elven magic, fae magic.

Elven –– strongly favored internal, physical, tangible. Easy to apply in bursts to one's own strength, stamina, speed, intellect –– muscles, ligaments, cells, neurons. Easy enough to prevent or heal most injuries to self if addressed quickly enough, more complicated and usually temporary when attempting to change a body's actual tendencies –– healing others was better attempted through neutral –– no, he didn't need to remember that –– he didn't need to remember any of this, he _knew_ all this –– compare and contrast, compare and ––

Fae –– strongly favored external while treating the caster's body as just another object to manipulate. Physicality very much optional and potentially detrimental –– conjuration, transfiguration, teleportation, illusion, limited telekinesis –– his own handwriting, scribbled in the bottom right corner of a notecard, trying to shove as much information as possible into one concept ––

Ethereal.

Fae magic was ethereal. It was less... _there_. Or at least, that was how Sportacus had quickly, frantically explained it to himself back then.

He opened his eyes, looked down at his hands, hesitated briefly, and then –– wiggled his fingers, a bit.

_click._

Robbie snorted. "That'll work."

Head spinning as he resettled himself in the present, Sportacus tried to smile. "Anything else?"

"That's it. Unless you feel like a couple more practice runs."

He considered it, but –– no. It would leave too much room for second-guessing.

Deep breath.

He centered himself in front of the gloves, feet shoulder-width apart, hands hovering at the ready.

Shut his eyes.

And let the defenses in the back of his mind dissolve.

Instantly, the neutral magic poured in, carving out a temporary space for itself. It was an _odd_ feeling –– not painful, not at all, but somehow very unsettling. Like it was shuffling his own magic out of the way, creating little niches for itself within his body –– his psyche –– his _cells_. Just strange enough to be unnerving, and just subtle enough that it always managed to catch him off guard. He wondered if it was the same for Robbie, neutral magic elbowing aside fae every time, or if he had learned to keep them in balance.

Relying half on instinct and half on luck, Sportacus tried to gauge the amount of magic he was letting in versus the amount actually needed ( _gloves, not a truck_ ) and, at what he hoped was the right moment, carefully shut himself off to it. The magic left outside was less insistent, which he took as a good sign. It fluttered around him, pinwheeling, and then fell away.

In better circumstances, he would have given his body a moment to adjust to this new balance. In the _current_ circumstances, that would have merely doubled as a moment to potentially panic about it.

So he said, very firmly, " _Shield_ ," and went straight into the movements. Focusing on this and nothing else.

Trying to, at least. It was getting difficult to keep his mind rooted in the here and now, and _c_ _asting_ was... always an experience. Deliberately allowing magic _out_ of his body, directing it in the open –– it was a strange feeling, one that threatened to ring alarm bells but never quite did. Not when it was clear that the magic was neutral, anyway.

Growing up, he'd had the same warnings drilled into his head as any other elf: don't externalize your magic if you don't know what you're doing. And you _don't_ know what you're doing, so _don't externalize your magic_. Best case failure scenario: you can't do it. Second best: you can, and, removed so suddenly from any sort of structure, it fizzles out and evaporates. Bad: you let out too much, your body can't replenish it quickly enough, you're dead.

Worst case failure scenario: it doesn't evaporate. No longer bound to a body, it feeds on itself and grows beyond your ability to control it, and then beyond its ability to control itself, and then, again, you're dead, and this time so is anyone else who happened to be nearby.

At this point in his life he was fairly confident in his ability to properly utilize the technique if necessary, and extremely confident that he would _rather_ _not_. It was dangerous, difficult, and draining. He'd done it a few times as part of his Order training –– always in strictly controlled environments, under careful supervision, after a lot of research and a lot of practice.

...Strictly controlled environments. Strictly controlled _except_ , of course, for the fact that Óséðurskuggi had been there. Careful supervision, _including his_.

Sportacus slammed the door on that line of thinking the instant it rose to conscious awareness. Now was not the time. He realized he'd been standing still, hands shaped around a conspicuous lack of imagery for –– how long?

Didn't matter.

He redoubled his concentration, picturing the shield in his head –– spherical and light blue, translucent, hovering just in front of him, bobbing and weaving in place like treading water.

Keeping his thoughts running carefully along a track of concepts and images, trying to keep out any words that might interfere with the incantation, he proceeded through the rest of the movements. The magic flowing from his palms and fingertips left him feeling a bit like he'd run them under a cold faucet.

He finished the last gesture, stepped out of position, and let the small amount of excess magic flow from his fingers to rejoin the environment.

"It worked," he said. It wasn't a question. The fact had slid quietly into his mind, slotted neatly into place with a final, softly resounding _click_.

He felt... dizzy, but in an almost satisfying sort of way. That had taken –– more energy than it was perhaps wise to expend just now, but it had _worked_ , he'd _done something_ , and the tangible proof was lying at his feet.

He opened his eyes, and beamed at Robbie. "Thank you for this."

Robbie scoffed, arms crossed, but failed to entirely suppress an answering smile. "You haven't even tried them on yet."

"True!" Sportacus removed his current gloves and, after a moment's thought, slipped them into the inside vest pocket alongside his notepad. Then he retrieved the newly warded gloves from the ground and pulled them on.

"It _definitely_ worked," he said. The magic was thrumming _almost_ unnoticeably with potential energy, and felt pleasantly cool against his skin. "And they really do look very nice!" he added, flexing his hands to admire the pattern.

"Of _course_ they do." Robbie sounded offended at the mere suggestion that they might _not_. Then he cracked a smile and said, "You know –– I think I _owe_ you one free warded shot. Or... you owe me one, however you want to look at it. You could punch me in the face, is what I'm getting at here."

Inasmuch as Sportacus had currently _had_ any sort of thought process, it abruptly crashed and burned. "I could _what_?" he yelped.

"I mean," Robbie continued, perfectly calm, "I was wearing –– a lot more at the time, and they were meant for –– more than what those are, but also: you're _you_ , and I'm _me_ , so I think that about evens out."

"I'm not going to _hit_ you!" Sportacus protested, horrified.

Robbie rolled his eyes. "Of course you're not, I was _joking_." He took a step forward, gaze flicking from the gloves to Sportacus's face and back. "...Although."

Sportacus took a step back, alarmed. "Although _what_?"

"Well." Robbie tilted his head. "Just... Maybe you had a point, earlier. I'd rather know ahead of time what those _would_ do, if we... bumped into each other."

Sportacus took another, _larger_ step back, clutching one hand in the other against his chest. "H-How about we just be _very careful_ not to?"

"Relax, it's not gonna _kill_ me," Robbie said, but he made no move to step any closer. "It'll barely do anything; it's a _shield_ and I don't have a ton of magic for it to target in the first place. I'd just... rather not find out _what_ it barely does the hard way."

"And this is the _easy_ way, is it?" Sportacus said warily. He could still remember what it had felt like –– the initial punch and the later collisions, pain exploding along every nerve ending ––

But.

Robbie did have a point. ...And was just _looking_ at him, like he _knew_ that Sportacus _knew_ he had a point.

" _Fine_ ," Sportacus muttered, and reluctantly stuck out one arm. "Just –– be very careful."

"...Yes," Robbie said. "I'll just _very carefully_ touch this anti-fae ward, _thank_ you." He reached out and tapped the back of Sportacus's hand with two fingers –– and instantly jumped back, shaking his hand out and laughing.

"Ha! Well, _now_ I'm awake."

Sportacus swallowed, willing his heart to stop trying to pound out of his chest. This was _fine_. Robbie was fine. The crystal hadn't even gone off. "What –– what did it feel like?"

"Static electricity," Robbie said, "but... not." He eyed Sportacus thoughtfully, the amusement sliding off his face. "I... I _punched_ you, wearing –– _so much_ of this stuff ––"

"And I almost cracked your skull with an _apple_ ," Sportacus interrupted, looking Robbie in the eye and desperately hoping his real message was getting across: _Let's not do this right now. I_ _ **can't**_ _do this right now._

There was a beat of silence, and then ––

"Give me _some_ credit," Robbie muttered. "I have a thicker skull than that."

Sportacus managed a small smile. "Well. I'm glad."

"I –– um." Robbie was glancing uneasily from Sportacus to the chute. "I mean –– I suppose I should –– invite you in to test those out, it's just –– it's just ––"

It was just that he didn't want to. That much was clear. Didn't matter why: it was Sportacus's turn to offer an out. "I should go catch up with the kids," he said, which was at least true. "Make sure Íþrótt isn't –– well. Being Íþrótt."

"Right," Robbie said, relief plain on his face. "You go rescue the brats, I'll –– I mean –– I'll... see you later."

"Oh –– um. Yes. Later." How much later? Sportacus was... not entirely certain he'd be _conscious_ in a few hours' time, but. Robbie was already climbing into the chute, and it didn't really matter anyway, because the airship wouldn't unlock until seven, so he'd be easy enough to find even if he did fall asleep.

Thoughts beginning to circle like storm clouds, Sportacus shook his head and took off towards town.

* * *

_[Art](http://shadowseaker13.deviantart.com/art/Submission-catch-your-breath-there-are-no-brakes-661968004) by [Shadowseaker13](http://shadowseaker13.deviantart.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1)
> 
> Robbie: [flirts]
> 
> Robbie 2 seconds later: anyway you should probably use actual literal magic to stay as disconnected from me as possible at all times.
> 
> ...Okay, Robbie.
> 
> 2)
> 
> "s o ok i've never fuckin seen Ghost but they fuckinnnggg Ghost Pottery Scene these gloves." –– initial notes on this chapter. it kind of turned into sport losing a game of gay chicken instead but the intent was there.
> 
> also from my notes: "(Note to self, someone trying to coach you through figuring out specific movements would stress you the Fuck Out, but it's the kind of task that Sportacus probably finds engaging, a fun challenge, a pleasant distraction. Except he definitely spirals into Gay Thoughts once Robbie starts touching him lmao. this what u get for putting ur hand over his mouth, sport.)"
> 
> 3)
> 
> Me: but is it at all realistic for Sportacus to be suddenly remembering this stuff so vividly just because it's a subject he hasn't thought about in a while
> 
> Also Me: [watches one (1) video about music theory and is swarmed by memories of childhood piano lessons and high school band class] ok cool
> 
> also, plz assume the book he was reading, the "advice" Íþrótt was giving him, and the notes he was taking were all actually in Elvish.
> 
> 4)
> 
> these scenes keep ending up longer than i plan for lmao. this is Part 2 of like... 6 ish of what i thought was going to be one chapter.
> 
> 5)
> 
> i hope a shower on the airship is not an AU bridge too far
> 
> 6)
> 
> okay so a glimpse behind the curtain of the writing process for this chapter would have revealed yours truly running around in the metaphorical backstage, screaming at odd intervals and frantically pulling props out of boxes. by which i mean i started this series not realizing it would be a series, and then i wrote most of into the woods thinking it would be the _last_ in the series, and then i planned _this_ whole fic out thinking "ok how far can i get with this before i have to stop being vague about how magic works" and the answer was... apparently this far lol.
> 
> So I re-read old chapters and old notes, I typed up _new_ notes, I spent about forty minutes pacing around the house and rambling into my phone while the dog ran circles around me, and I'm _pretty sure_ I've avoided any outright contradictions. there's like one paragraph of into the woods and a few other bits scattered throughout that i am now thinking of as Early Installment Weirdness. knowing me i'll eventually go back and Fix most of them (i have. tweaked a few things a bit already), but i am Out Of Writing Power rn. (if you happen to spot any glaring "that's not how magic works" plot holes, please feel free to point them out.)
> 
> 7)
> 
> On a similar note: I'm sure Science in this AU has progressed in a manner that has ended up with some kind of be-all end-all Iron Alternative, but for all our sakes I thought I'd better draw the expositional line at having Sportacus idly reminisce about the nature of metallurgy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) thiS TOOK SO LONG? I'M SORRY?
> 
> 2) Thank you all as ever for reading, and especially for feedback of any kind! <3
> 
> 3) And thank you so much to thatbluesuitedblowhard for creating [this](https://thatbluesuitedblowhard.tumblr.com/post/157040431340/into-the-light-by-defectivevorta-board) awesome board, to Shadowseaker13 for making [this](http://shadowseaker13.deviantart.com/art/Submission-catch-your-breath-there-are-no-brakes-661968004) adorable comic which I am still giggling at, and to Bluphelis for a [v cool pic](http://bluphelis.tumblr.com/post/156989149093) of Glanni! (Please note that Bluphelis _does not_ want that post reblogged!)
> 
> 4) Is there a bench along the inside edge of the sports field?? there is now!!
> 
> 5) I'm probably forgetting something! I have been awake too long and this chapter has changed shape about a dozen times over the past... well, dozen days :D

Robbie shot out the end of the chute and landed in a sprawl against his chair, and there he remained. There he _would_ remain, he decided. For eternity. At _least_. He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, didn't even bother to see if he was right-side-up.

He did, eventually, move. Very slowly. One arm. To drape across his eyes.

"I'll _keep_ my _hands_ to _myself_?" he yelped, voice shrill with panic and disbelief and increasing steadily in volume. "So you can _focus_? What is _wrong_ with me? Why do I _say things_?"

Whatever. _Whatever_. Screw eternity; he didn't have that kind of patience.

He shoved himself away from the chair and then scrambled to his feet (he had _not_ , in fact, been right-side-up), resisted a brief urge to claw his own face off, and stalked off into the lesser-utilized recesses of his lair.

The microwave had been refusing all morning to make anything resembling snow, which meant he had a weather machine to find.

Or, if it didn't turn up soon, he had a weather machine to _invent_.

* * *

Finding the kids without finding Sportacus was... _not_ alarming, because Íþróttaálfurinn refused to _be_ alarmed by it.

He was, however... _concerned_.

So were the children. Íþróttaálfurinn did his best to keep them occupied, a task which was also proving to be an effective enough distraction for himself –– not that he would ever admit it, and not that he'd needed to be told in the first place, but Sport had had a point about five different children being able to run off in five different directions. For living in such a quiet ( _saccharine, hollow, **lifeless**_ ) town, these kids sure had a knack for stumbling into danger.

Well. For a given value of danger, anyway. Íþróttaálfurinn was making a concentrated effort not to let himself think of this as _low stakes_. Missing a foothold halfway up a cliff or falling out of a treehouse –– a broken neck was a broken neck.

...All right. Maybe that was a bit too far in the other direction.

It was just... odd. He was _babysitting_. Which he'd done plenty of back in the day, trading off hosting duties for his brother's friend group with the other parents, siblings, cousins, and general frazzled guardians of all stripes.

But that felt like lifetimes ago. He'd practically been a kid himself.

"Íþrótt?"

"Hm?" He shook himself free of his wandering thoughts to see Trixie and Stephanie sharing a worried look.

"You just got _super_ zoned out," Trixie said, tossing a soccer ball to herself. "You good?"

"Ah, I'm fine." Íþróttaálfurinn forced a grin. "Just lost in thought for a moment." Lost in thought. Right. Sorry, kid, just busy wondering what the Íþrótt who used to get stressed out about coordinating playdates would think of the Íþrótt who has to equate babysitting to _deadly danger_ to make sure he's paying enough attention. That's all.

Soccer had gone much smoother once he'd got them to stop fighting over him ("It's three against three!" "Yeah, but he counts as like _six_!") long enough to suggest they all play _against_ him this time.

"How about one more game?" he said, with a glance up at the sky. It looked like they were getting into afternoon. "And then break for lunch?"

"Okay!"

He didn't... _exactly_ let them win, and hadn't _exactly_ been doing so all morning. There was a fine line between insulting their integrity versus never actually letting them get anywhere near the ball, and he liked to think he had found the balance on his first day here. A tie for the final game was –– maybe a little bit suspicious, but they all seemed happy enough about it.

...Come to think of it, maybe they were just worn out. It was _possible_ he'd overestimated the number of consecutive soccer games human children could reasonably be expected to play. By the end of the match, Ziggy was sprawled on the ground, and the other four mostly seemed to be keeping each other upright through strategic leaning.

Oops.

It was at this point that he sensed his brother's approach.

Which was not altogether reassuring.

His aura was... both more and less _off_ than it had been yesterday –– the turmoil was still there, less of an actively bubbling threat and more of a low simmer, blanketed in exhaustion.

Íþróttaálfurinn turned in time to see Sportacus vault halfheartedly over a wall at the edge of the field, stagger to a bench, and collapse.

All right. _Now_ he was alarmed.

His brother was _sitting still_. On a _bench_. And what was more, he was pretty sure –– yes, he was definitely _cloaked_. Hiding himself from humans. From the _children_. Sportacus didn't make a habit of wasting energy on magic at the best of times, let alone when he was already going around looking _half dead_.

Definitely time to intervene.

"Lunch!" Íþróttaálfurinn announced brightly, turning back to the children and clapping his hands once, decisive. "You go and get your strength up, get some rest, and I'll see about finding my brother."

This plan was met with tired cheers. Stephanie and Pixel pulled Ziggy to his feet, and slowly the children made their way off the field.

It was easy enough to keep track of their auras. Once they'd turned a corner down the street, he approached the bench. "They're gone."

Instantly, Sportacus let the magic drop, and then slumped forward, appearing to not so much bury his face in his hands as just rest his head on them for convenience. "Thanks." His own power out of the way, the faint glow around his gloves was suddenly obvious. Wards? Anti-fae wards, it felt like.

Íþróttaálfurinn tilted his head and filed that away to ask about later. "Those kids are pretty good at soccer," he said, testing the waters. (And honestly, they _were_. They'd said something about a robot?)

"Yeah." Sportacus smiled faintly. It didn't last long, but it was there. Good. He wasn't _completely_ out of it, then.

"...Rough night?" Judging by aura alone, Íþróttaálfurinn had a pretty good _guess_ for how his brother's night might have gone, but it couldn't hurt to see how willing or unwilling he was to talk.

"Not... not _great_ ," Sportacus said, mirthless laughter beneath the words.

Right.

So.

Not trying to brush him off. Not snapping at him. Not pretending to be fine. This was, perhaps, their _best_ shot at having a serious conversation without escalating it into an argument. All of which led Íþróttaálfurinn to one simple, grim conclusion: he was _also_ going to have to _sit_ _still_ on this _bench_.

With an only slightly long-suffering sigh, and in what was surely a supreme act of familial sacrifice, he sat down. 

* * *

_[Art](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/157581852237/gods-damn-it-why-you-gotta-hurt-me-this-way) by [Stuffdone](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

"So," he said quietly, scrutinizing his brother. "What's going on with you?"

That simmering turmoil rose sharply, skyrocketing towards hysteria –– and then just as abruptly it collapsed in on itself, settling quietly into a plateau of white noise, and all Sportacus did was shrug. "It's... a long story."

"I've got time to listen."

"I don't, um..." Sportacus lifted his face from his hands and stared down at them, speaking slowly. "I don't think I could... do that. Right now. It's not –– it's just... too much talking. Or not _talking_ , exactly, but too much... figuring out –– how to put it."

"So something did happen." Dread tried to settle in the pit of Íþróttaálfurinn's stomach, but he refused. Dread was a trap: tricked you into accepting that a situation was helpless before you had even tried.

Sportacus opened his mouth –– shut it –– opened it again and inclined his head minutely, like he was admitting to something. "A lot of things happened."

And there the conversation rested, for an agonizing minute or so. Sportacus staring at nothing, and Íþróttaálfurinn searching for the line between supportive and overbearing, while his instincts screamed: _fix this!_ and he screamed back: _I'm **trying**!_

And then Sportacus clenched his hands into fists and said, barely above a whisper, "He didn't even glamour me."

"What?" All right, not the most eloquent response, but that... was somehow not what he'd been expecting to hear.

Sportacus hunched his shoulders. "Number N–– Óséðurskuggi. With the rest of the Order. He didn't even _bother_."

Oh.

Well.

This would be _fun._

Deep breath. First thing first. "Are you _sure_?"

Sportacus nodded, a tight, over-controlled motion. "I –– there was –– something just... made me realize. That he must have done –– something. And that was _it_. I bothered to think about him for a couple _seconds_ and –– that's, um." He glanced sideways at Íþróttaálfurinn and then away, looking out across the sports field. "That's how I set off the other glamour. I knew... I knew he'd done _something_. I knew something was _wrong_. And it just sort of... But that first moment, thinking about _him_ , there was –– nothing. _Nothing_. He didn't... see me as enough of a threat to even take _basic_ precautions."

A strange feeling was creeping over Íþróttaálfurinn. Almost an out of body experience. He'd _had_ this conversation. Not often, but more than once. He wasn't... particularly _good_ at this conversation. Shellshocked people wracked with guilt, wanting to know what they could have done, why they _hadn't_ , how the ones responsible had known they _wouldn't_ , and he always wanted to say –– sorry, can you just postpone this breakdown for about five minutes, let me find someone who knows how to _talk_ to people, I don't want to make things _worse_.

But this was his _brother_.

"Well," he said firmly. "Sounds like the joke is on him."

"I ––" Wrong move already. The distress in Sportacus's aura spiked again but was slower to collapse this time as he pulled in a ragged breath, and that feeling of déjà vu doubled and crashed into itself as Íþróttaálfurinn set a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey! Just––"

"Please don't tell me to _breathe_ ," Sportacus snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in frustrated concentration. "Just... give me a second."

"Okay." He hadn't thrown off the hand on his shoulder, but after a moment's consideration Íþróttaálfurinn removed it anyway. _Give him a second. Give him space._

Breathing effectively evening out, Sportacus opened his eyes. "I'm _fine_ , honestly."

"Okay."

"...Stop _humoring_ me."

"Okay."

Sportacus huffed a laugh and leaned back against the bench, tilting his head back to squint up at the bright afternoon sky. "You're doing the _aura_ thing," he said flatly, crossing his arms, "aren't you."

"...Well, maybe a little."

" _Cheating_."

"Strategizing!" Íþróttaálfurinn protested.

"Can you just –– switch it off, please, I don't need anyone else in my head, it's crowded enough already and not fit for guests."

"It's not like I'm reading your _thoughts_ ," Íþróttaálfurinn grumbled, halfheartedly.

Sportacus shot him a _look_. "Oh, yes, just my mood, my emotions, my stress levels –– you're right, that's _much_ less intrusive."

Íþróttaálfurinn held up his hands, admitting defeat. "All right, fine! Can't promise it won't happen again, I tend to just –– stay tuned in nowadays. Force of habit. Keeps me aware of my surroundings." Which was... a little more than he'd meant to say, but he'd been somewhat distracted by the sudden, brief flare of _horrified_ _panic_ at the thought of completely switching off his extra senses. He set that aside to (possibly. maybe.) address later and simply tuned his brother's aura out: _off limits_.

"So," he said. "Still want to talk to me? I warn you I'm even worse at it when I'm not _cheating_."

"It's just," Sportacus said instantly, and, okay, the lack of hesitation was a _little_ gratifying, maybe he wasn't _completely_  out of practice at this, "do you know how many times I asked the others where he was? And their answers never –– never made _sense_ and I just –– I just _dropped it_. It wasn't –– it couldn't have been a glamour, I could _think_ about it, I _remember thinking_ , oh, it's fine, it's a little strange that he's never around but who am I to question my _superiors_? If I had just ––" he cut himself off again, but he sounded more angry than anything else.

"Listen to me," Íþróttaálfurinn said sternly, mind whirring, making every effort to sound like he knew exactly what he was saying and was not in fact scrambling to strike a balance –– to tell the truth without being harsher than necessary, and to take the sting out of it without pretending it wasn't there. "That's _exactly_ what he planned for, and that's _not_ your fault. To make it as long as he did without anyone catching on –– Sport, the people who actually manage to pull these things off are _so_ careful. They don't leave _anything_ up to chance."

"Yes, and he _still_ ––"

" _Listen_. He did the same thing with you as he did with _everyone_ else –– he evaluated you, he made a judgement call, and he took what he thought were appropriate measures. He was... strategizing. Trying to find the right balance, keep the glamour strong _enough_ without burning himself out, burning it _up_ , or drawing anyone's attention. I'm sure he studied you –– saw that you were..."

He tried not to hesitate long enough for the words he didn't choose to make themselves heard via absence. Settled on:

" _Respectful_. Young. Mindful of your place as the new recruit and not eager to make waves. _Especially_ ," and here he broke off, cleared his throat and gave his brother a rueful smile, "considering how _royally_ pissed off they were at _me_ for ditching them. He counted on _them_ to keep you in line –– because it was literally part of their job. He didn't count you out –– but."

And here was the crux of the matter, wasn't it, here was the part he had to say _right_. "He did count you _down_ , and that's where he shot himself in the foot. He underestimated you. Trusted that you would never bother to think for yourself and you _did_."

"Yes," Sportacus hissed, "when it was too late to _help_ anybody!"

"If he's still got captives," Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly, "it's not too late for _them_. And it's not too late for whoever he might go after next if we don't find him! I need you to understand, and I don't..." He bit his tongue. There were things he shouldn't say, and there were things Sportacus needed to hear, and someone had just shaken that particular venn diagram into a whole new alignment.

"I... don't know how well I'm getting this across, just –– just bear with me. I know... how people like him _think_. No one is just... a person, to them. They fall into categories –– victim, resource, ally. Opponent. Security risk. Sometimes more than one. People who sustain glamours as long as he has are very, _very_ good at pulling strings. They have to be, that's why they're not _dead_. But they're not perfect. They make mistakes –– sometimes big ones, which makes my job easier, but usually not. Usually it's a handful of small things, and it's... very common for those things to take years to add up. I would wager Óséðurskuggi's mistake is the same as most of them –– arrogance. He left you unglamoured. He left Robbie alive. He left this town in _tact_. Just because it's taken a long time for those mistakes to catch up to him does not mean they are _not_ mistakes, or that they don't matter."

There. That was –– well –– it had at least sounded better in his head than the stumbling, generic responses ( _it's not your fault. you didn't do this_.) that were all he'd ever been able to offer grieving strangers.

"That... makes sense," Sportacus said after a beat of silence, with a weary exhale. "I'm... not sure I feel any better about it, but it makes sense. Maybe I will later."

Íþróttaálfurinn allowed himself a small sigh of relief. "Trust me, kiddo, I get it." He paused briefly while Sportacus grumbled the requisite _don't call me that_. "There have been dozens of times I ran into something and... should have known right away it was connected to him."

"That's not your fault," Sportacus said sharply, falling right into the trap.

Íþróttaálfurinn gave him a pointed look. "It's not yours, either."

Sportacus opened his mouth, shut it, and looked away. "All right, fine. You have a point."

"It's been known to happen," Íþróttaálfurinn said, with just a trace of smugness.

They fell into what was not quite an easy silence. Still full of unspoken words, but less fraught than the previous break in the conversation. Íþróttaálfurinn found his mind wandering to the letters he'd written that morning –– he wondered if they had all reached their intended targets, if he might find replies waiting for him by tomorrow, or if any had lost their way.

"...I'm sorry about yesterday," Sportacus muttered, and, oh. Right. _That_.

This would be either a very quick fix or a very unpleasant conversation.

Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged. "It's fine."

"It's _not_ , I didn't mean –– I shouldn't have snapped at you. Just... I..." Sportacus hunched forward, crossing his arms. "I worry about you," he said, and swallowed, staring at the ground. "I worry about you... a lot."

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed.

Not a quick fix, then.

"I know," he said quietly, and let a hand rest cautiously on his brother's shoulder. "You _really_ don't have to."

Sportacus tensed, but –– again, didn't throw his hand off, at least. Not yet. "You don't –– Íþrótt, you don't _get_ it."

"So explain it to me."

"You –– just ––" Sportacus seemed briefly to be struggling for words, then he took a deep breath and turned to look him in the eye. "Imagine it was _me_ out there," he said firmly, "and you back here, and I was sending you letters about –– about –– jumping off _cliffs_ , and rappelling into _volcanoes_ , and those are the _good_ letters, not the ones where I talk about –– about not liking the kind of _person_ I'm becoming –– _Íþrótt_ , you said you thought you were _losing_ _yourself_ _to_ _the_ _necessities_ _of_ _the_ _job_ , whatever the _hell_ that means, and that was the last thing I heard from you for a month and a half! Do you know how many times in a –– in a –– in a _day_ I have to stop sometimes and not let myself think about the fact that you could be _dead_ in some _cave_ or something and I would never even _know_?"

Íþróttaálfurinn opened his mouth. Shut it. Waited for thoughts to form. They didn't.

"I," he heard himself say, "I said –– I _said_ that?" And then, before Sportacus could answer: "I... _did_ say that, didn't I. Shit."

 _Now_ his mind was gearing up, tripping over itself in its haste to make up for missing its cue. Several dozen cues, really. A thousand idle thoughts and haphazardly buried memories and carefully ignored facts were suddenly smashing into each other, making connections that should have been there all along.

Nothing magical about it, not this time. This was just the result of... distance. Obliviousness. Himself.

It was very different. Writing letters in a haze of not-quite-despair, justifying it to himself that this was the time for _honesty_ , that if he didn't say something real to someone who mattered he was going to explode, that if he died tomorrow his brother deserved a more sincere final message than the usual optimistic bravado.

Actually sitting next to said brother, seeing his face, hearing his voice –– you could be _dead_ ––

It was very... different.

Íþróttaálfurinn dragged a hand down his face. " _Shit_ ," he said again.

"...Íþrótt?" Sportacus sounded confused.

_Well, join the club._

"I –– I think –– hold on. This is, ah. Me trying to explain something to both of us at the same time."

Sportacus tilted his head, looking understandably dubious. "Okay?"

"I think –– I think sometimes I don't... quite _get_ the fact that you. Actually read the things I send." Right. Because _that_ made sense. Íþróttaálfurinn shoved a hand through his hair in frustration, dislodging his hat. "I mean I –– I _know_ you do, that's the whole point, but there's –– it's..."

He couldn't put it into words. Wasn't sure he should. Stared down at the hat in his hands and tried to make it make sense to _himself_.

The sheer isolation, so complete and inescapable. Smothering. How could he explain –– what it _felt_ like, to be the only person for miles around, months on end, in a place that actively rebelled against his presence?

Or to be surrounded. By people who he was... deathly afraid he would one day stop _thinking_ of as _people_ , successfully disconnect them from the concept in his mind and put them into more _manageable_ terms, because outside of occasional colleagues and an outlier or two, those he crossed paths with fell into two broad categories and those in the first category sometimes had to be... _stopped_ , and those in the second couldn't always be saved, and either way he had to be able to live with himself after.

...And sometimes, during that _after_ , drowning in bone-deep fatigue and a frantic sort of apathy, he wrote to his brother.

"Most of the letters," he said, slowly, trying to give himself time for concepts to become thoughts to become sentences, "are... deliberate. I mean –– I mean I write them when I'm... fine. I try to be –– I try to –– _tell_ you when good things are happening. Even if I can't tell you what they are. Or if I can't think of anything, I just –– I –– ask questions, at least."

"The letters ––" Sportacus said, and then cut himself off. "I... never mind. Go on."

"What?"

"It's... nothing, it wouldn't be fair."

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes. " _Sport_. C'mon. I'm not violently shaking down my own subconscious here just so we can keep not _saying_ things to each other."

Sportacus wouldn't look at him. "Well, that's... kind of it. I mean. The letters about –– about. Good things. They're very..."

"Fake?" Íþróttaálfurinn suggested. He felt a bit like someone was trying to hollow out his chest cavity.

"Not _fake_ , no," Sportacus said hurriedly, shaking his head. "Just. I can... I can tell you're leaving things out. But there's not... really anything you can do about that. I know you can't tell me everything. It's just..."

"It's just that then I go and tell you too _much_."

"And still not _enough_!" Sportacus turned to face him as he said it, voice suddenly ratcheting up in volume and his hands gesturing emphatically before he clapped one over his own mouth, looking shocked at his own outburst. He lowered his hand slowly. "...Sorry. Just. You sound –– in some of those letters, you sound like you hate –– where you are, what you're doing, you sound like you _hate_ _yourself_ , and I don't –– I don't even know enough to be able to say anything that might _help_."

"That's not your job."

Sportacus glared at him. "Yes it _is_."

Íþróttaálfurinn sighed. "Look, this... This isn't an excuse, this is –– it's not but it is a _reason_ , I think, I –– when things... _aren't_. Going well. I get very... I –– don't care about things. But I do. But I... don't. And it gets... difficult to think. So I... I write letters. And if I come to my senses in time, I don't send them. And if I don't, I do. And then I convince myself they weren't that bad. So. I'm sorry. I didn't realize how ––" He bit the inside of his mouth. Didn't matter. Didn't matter that he didn't know. "Like I said, it's... not an excuse. I'm sorry for scaring you."

"I'm not angry at you for _scaring_ me," Sportacus snapped. Then paused. "...Okay, I'm a _little_ angry about that. But I am more angry at how little regard you seem to have for _yourself_."

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked. "...Um. What?"

Sportacus stared at him. And then, very slowly, he lowered his head to rest on his hands once again. "I'm too tired for this," he said, voice pitched upwards, an exasperated whimper.

Bemused, Íþróttaálfurinn patted him on the back. "Maybe you should go home? Get some sleep?"

"I locked myself out."

"...You what?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Sportacus muttered. "Look, just –– just tell me you're _careful_. Even if it's a lie."

"I try to be." Which _wasn't_ a lie. Not really. "I'm good at what I do, Sport. That's not –– I'm not bragging. Just –– you know me. I like being good at things. And being good at this job requires being good at staying alive. I work just as hard at that part as everything else."

Sportacus gave him a sideways squint. "I'm pretty sure that _was_ bragging."

"Well." Íþróttaálfurinn grinned. "Maybe a little."

So. Crisis –– not exactly dealt with. Possibly actually _expanded_ , branched off into another crisis all his own, namely, _what the hell have I been doing_. But –– well, crisis  _a_ _cknowledged_ , at least. He'd deal with the question of exactly how aware he was or apparently _was not_ of his own actions later.

What next.

He eyed his brother critically. "Have you eaten anything today?"

" _Yes_ ," Sportacus said, and returned the look just as pointedly. "Have _you_?"

"Y––" Íþróttaálfurinn started to say, stopped, and glanced up at the sky. He'd had a few bites in between writing and encoding his letters, which had _technically_ been this morning. Probably. "...All right," he said sheepishly. "Fair question."

Sportacus rolled his eyes. "Apple," he said, slapping a hand over the insignia on his chest.

Nothing happened.

Sportacus frowned. Íþróttaálfurinn tried not to laugh. "Is your backpack also too tired to deal with me?"

"I wouldn't blame it," Sportacus muttered, unclasping the backpack in question and eyeing it quizzically. "What's the matter, am I out of –– oh!" He flipped open the top and withdrew the strange anti-magic hoop he'd had around his arm last night. "It's just this thing, I forgot I had it. The backpack is partly technological, part magic. It must have blocked it. Here!"

He tossed an apple into the air. Íþróttaálfurinn caught it and took a few bites while Sportacus set his backpack aside and started fidgeting with the hoop, passing his hands through it and looking intrigued by whatever effect it must have been having on the wards.

"So what's with that thing?" Íþróttaálfurinn asked, curiosity getting the better of him. "You kept it?"

"The shield?"

"Is _that_ what it's supposed to be?" he said, laughing. "Its output is so low I didn't even sense it through your _backpack_."

"It's a prototype," Sportacus said, a defensive edge to his voice.

Íþróttaálfurinn made both an educated guess and zero attempt at fighting down a smirk. "Did Robbie make it?"

"Shut _up_ ," Sportacus groaned, burying his face in one hand. "And yes. _And_ I don't know what you're talking about, it works fine. Here."

He handed it over, and Íþróttaálfurinn jolted a bit in surprise at the instant disconnect from the neutral magic around him. It wasn't a particularly strong layer –– anyone who knew what they were doing could have forced the magic through easily enough, if necessary. But it would certainly provide a boost towards a more concentrated effort at keeping out unwanted effects.

"...Huh." He turned it over in his hands, contemplative. "He must have made it that way on purpose, then."

"What way?"

"It's... difficult to detect. Not impossible, I would have known it was there if your backpack wasn't blocking it, but most people would never pick up on it."

"You're bragging again," Sportacus said dryly, taking the shield back.

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes. "I just meant most people aren't normally _looking_ for this kind of thing."

"Mmhm." Sportacus idly tossed the hoop to himself, higher each time.

Íþróttaálfurinn followed it with his eyes. "So why did he give it to you?"

Sportacus paused. Caught the hoop again and didn't throw it. "Um."

"Is this part of that long story you don't want to tell me?"

"...Yes," Sportacus said, not looking at him, shoving the shield back in his backpack and reattaching it to his vest as he spoke. "And it's not that I don't want to tell you, it's just... a lot."

"Summary?"

Sportacus gave an annoyed huff. "All right, the _very_ short version is that I'm not –– I don't... Fae Territory is not the best place for me to be. Right now. I didn't, um –– well, when Robbie realized, he gave me the shield, said maybe it would help until he could think of something better. Which..." 

Both of their eyes strayed to Sportacus's gloves. Sportacus pulled absently at the back of one. "I'm guessing you can tell what these are?"

"Mm." Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged. "Not even going to pretend I wasn't biding my time for the best moment to be nosy about that."

"He, um..." Sportacus trailed off. He was no longer just idly looking at his hands, he was _staring_. Brow furrowed. The longer he stared, the deeper in thought he appeared to be. "...Oh."

"What?"

"...I think I fucked up."

Íþróttaálfurinn looked from his brother's face to his hands and back again, bewildered. "Okay. How?"

"He –– I went by his lair this m–– well, not this morning I guess, but earlier, before –– before I came here, I went to talk to him, and he gave me these? But they weren't –– he said he tried to ward them himself but obviously –– anyway he just. He _gave_ them to me and I –– well we both sort of –– they wouldn't have taken an elven ward, but –– _augh_ , I mean, there's a _reason_ I didn't make something for myself in the first place; I should have said _no_!"

This was getting alarming. "Look," Íþróttaálfurinn said, aiming for soothing. "I'm sure it's not that bad."

Sportacus gave him an incredulous look. " _Íþ_ _rótt_. He gave me gloves that mean I can't _touch_ him without _hurting_ him and I said _thanks_!"

Íþróttaálfurinn winced. All right, on the whole, admittedly: _ouch_. "Okay," he said, "granted that I don't have all the context –– you might have fucked up a _little_ bit."

Sportacus covered his eyes with one hand. " _Why am I like this_."

"Hey, listen, this is a _real_ step forward in self-awareness from––"

"Shut up."

"––that time you got three dates in––"

"Shut _up_!"

"––to a relationship with Glazasimmetriikrichat before you even realized you _liked_ her."

"Íþrótt. _Shut_. _Up_ ," Sportacus growled, still not taking his hand away from his face.

"I mean, at least this time you seem to _know_ ," Íþróttaálfurinn said cheerfully, slapping him on the back. "Though why you are still not _doing_ anything about it is beyond me."

Now Sportacus did lower his hand, the better to _glower_. The dark circles under his eyes did wonders for the overall effect. "I'd think the fact that warding these was _his idea_ should be enough to tell you things aren't that _simple_."

"All right, fair." Still. "...Hey." Unable to entirely keep from grinning, Íþróttaálfurinn elbowed his brother lightly in the ribs. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"I _will_ kill you."

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed outright. "You'd have to catch me first."

"You know what?" Sportacus said brightly. "That's a great idea! I'll even give you a week's head start, while I sleep on this bench."

"Fine, fine," Íþróttaálfurinn said, affecting a hurt tone of voice as he got to his feet with exaggerated slowness, entire body begging him to take off at a sprint after holding still for so long. "I can tell when I'm not wanted."

"And _yet_ ," Sportacus muttered, pulling his hat down over his eyes.

Íþróttaálfurinn snorted. "Just get some rest. I can look after the kids today."

"...Thanks."

Of course, he thought, backing away from the bench, the children would probably still be recovering from all that soccer. Certainly they were nowhere in sight. Maybe they were playing computer games, or watching television, or eating a very, very _leisurely_ lunch. At any rate, they were clearly not outdoors.

"I'll just... go and see where they are," he called, about five feet away now.

"Mmhm," Sportacus murmured, already sounding more asleep than awake.

Good.

So.

There were things Íþróttaálfurinn could do, and there were things he couldn't.

He couldn't, at the moment, do anything about (or _to_ ) Óséðurskuggi. He couldn't do anything about the glamour still hanging over the human residents of the town. He couldn't singlehandedly track down any potential survivors of whatever had taken place here. And he couldn't promise to quit his job.

Clearing the gate at the edge of the sports field and, for the principle of the thing, keeping an honest eye out for any sign of the children, he took off in the direction of that strange billboard.

One thing he was still reasonably sure he _could_ do, if push came to shove came to fratricide?

Run a _lot_ faster than his brother.

* * *

_[Art](https://amolecularmachine.tumblr.com/post/158916091474/sooooo-ive-been-reading-catch-your-breath-there) by [Amolecularmachine](https://amolecularmachine.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Glazasimmetriikrichat is a reference to a note on chapter 7 about elves being fascinated by human languages, and Sport and Íþrótt having a neighbor whose common name was "Butchered Russian for 'that feel when you go to draw the oTHER E Y E'"
> 
> 2) _those he crossed paths with fell into two broad categories and those in the first category sometimes had to be... stopped_
> 
> [throws confetti] HAPPY LATE VALENTINES DAY, ÍÞRÓTT HAS KILLED PEOPLE


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOKAY, SORRY ABOUT THE WAIT ON THIS ONE, THESE CHARACTERS REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO TALK TO EACH OTHER. THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE, YOUR COMMENTS, YOUR KUDOS, AND YOUR TIME <3
> 
> And thank you, Stuffdone, for [this](http://stuffdone.tumblr.com/post/157581852237/gods-damn-it-why-you-gotta-hurt-me-this-way) particularly tense and emotional illustration of chapter 11.
> 
> It's been. Like a month so if I have forgotten anything I'm very sorry, please let me know.

Alarm bells were trying to ring in Sportacus's head, but the exhaustion batted them away. Nothing short of the crystal going off was going to drag him back to wakefulness at this point.

The conversation with Íþrótt had been... helpful, yes, but also draining. Especially after so much magic use during what had already started out as a low energy day. Hiding himself from the children had maybe been excessive, was _probably_ what had tipped the scales from a gradually increasing weariness to a more definite downward spiral, but... Well. The prospect of interacting with all of them at once had not become any less daunting, and completely isolating himself would have been worse.

And it had been easy to think of it as just –– he'd already _warded_ something, he'd already _broken_ his self-imposed rule about expending energy on unnecessary magic, so why stop now? When he was already resigned to falling asleep at some point anyway?

So. Not his best effort, when it came to responsible sleep habits. And he'd have to be careful not to let _it's fine to break this rule today_ turn into _it's fine to break this rule whenever I want_. But under the circumstances he decided not to beat himself up about it. Sometimes physical and mental health butted heads, and one of them had to come out on top. This was a workable enough compromise.

Of course, he didn't for one _second_ trust Íþrótt not to run off and pester Robbie. Hence the alarm bells.

There were reasons to be worried about that –– very worried, very _good_ reasons, beyond just the sheer mortified exasperation –– and he did, in a very distant way, feel _bad_. Robbie didn't need to deal with Íþrótt, on top of everything else.

It was just... very difficult, right now, to care. About anything. He had bypassed mere tiredness and reached the stage of _needing to be asleep_ ; the stage where his body was going to see to it that he _stopped being awake_. With or without his input and against his wishes if necessary.

He could feel a familiar tilting sensation behind his eyes, his consciousness leaning backwards over a precipice, farther and farther until it finally just...

Dropped.

* * *

Robbie woke up, which was disorienting in itself, because it implied he had fallen _asleep_ , which definitely hadn't been part of the plan.

Not that he necessarily _objected_ or anything. Sleep was nice; he'd take it where he could get it. Impromptu naps were just always strange to wake up from.

He stared down at the half-assembled bits of machinery on the worktable and waited for things to make sense. Microwave not cooperating. Weather machine. Right. What else?

Someone was knocking at the entrance to his lair. Continuously.

Grumbling to himself, he stood up, wincing as his knees and back popped in impressively coordinated protest, and dragged himself to the periscope.

"What's –– oh."

"Hello!" Íþróttaálfurinn said brightly, waving at him.

Sudden, bewildering _anger_ flared to life in Robbie's chest, and he reeled back in a choppy, uncontrolled lurch, hands tightening reflexively on the periscope viewer.

"...No solicitors at this time," he said flatly, and walked away without waiting for a response.

Why was he _angry_?

It was tempting to write it off –– he was stressed out and exhausted, of course he wasn't thrilled to be rudely awakened by a hyperactive and overly cheerful _elf_.

But. _Stressed out and exhausted_ was pretty much his default state, and he didn't fly into a rage at every little noise. ...Most of the time. Not lik _e that_. And the last time he'd let anger take hold without questioning it ––

No. Now he was overreacting to an overreaction. He just... couldn't let it dictate his actions, that was all. It was already fading into the background, anyway –– he felt, frankly, too _tired_ to sustain any particular emotion for very long.

He took a few steps back towards his workspace –– and then changed his mind and headed for his chair. Maybe he could just go back to sleep. The frantic, burning energy of last night (well, all right, this morning) wasn't quite there; he mostly felt... muffled. A little dizzy. It was worth a try.

The knocking started again.

Or maybe, Robbie thought, coming to a standstill in the middle of the floor, hands twitching in and out of fists at his sides, _maybe_ he would take this opportunity to extract a _tiny_ bit of vengeance.

Would he have had the same idea under calmer circumstances? ...Absolutely, yes. So really, resisting temptation _would_ be letting the anger dictate his actions. This was the _responsible_ thing to do.

Thinking quickly, he assessed himself –– yes, all right, tired enough that any serious magic use would be _difficult_ , but he wasn't aiming for anything _too_ ambitious anyway, just a couple of basic tricks –– he was _pretty_ sure he could maintain an illusion to block off any possible sense of himself, for at least a couple of seconds.

 _Concentrate_.

He snapped his fingers.

Materialized directly behind the elf –– who was _still knocking_ –– dropped the magic, and said, with all the icy politeness he could muster, " _Yes_?"

Íþróttaálfurinn didn't quite jump. He did whirl around, expression shifting rapidly from alarm to _beaming delight_.

Oh, _joy_.

"Ha!" he crowed, clapping a hand to Robbie's shoulder and nearly knocking him over. "All right, fair play. Are we even?"

Robbie stared at him. "You _climbed_ _out_ of my _television_."

The elf's grin didn't waver for even a second. "I'll take that as a no."

This had clearly been a mistake.

He definitely should have just gone back to sleep. A modicum of revenge had not been worth _this_. This was _untenable_. He didn't know which was more _irritatingly bright_ –– that grin, or the _sun_ , but the sooner he could get away from them _both_ , the better. "What do you _want_?"

"Information."

"I'm fresh out," Robbie said flatly, holding up one hand and steeling himself to teleport back into the lair.

"I want to know what happened to my brother," Íþróttaálfurinn said quickly, dropping the smile.

Robbie froze mid-snap. Lowered his hand and tried to shake the sudden feeling of ice flooding his veins. "...Um."

"I also want to know," Íþróttaálfurinn continued, in a perfectly cordial tone of voice, "when the two of you are going to get your shit together ––"

Robbie found himself taking a step backwards. " _Uh_ ––"

"–– and I have a feeling those questions might be related."

Another step back. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't even following; he was just _looking_ at him. Expressionless. Arms crossed. Waiting.

Robbie forced himself to stop backing away. Stood up straight and suppressed a wince, tried to look unimpressed. Annoyed. Inconvenienced. "Shouldn't you be interrogating _him_?"

"I'm not interrogating anyone," Íþróttaálfurinn said mildly, and his expression changed from terrifying blankness back to a slight grin, which... was actually not even one iota _less_ terrifying, because it implied he was having _fun_. "We're having a friendly chat."

"Shouldn't you be having a friendly _chat_ with _him_?" Robbie persisted.

"Tried that." Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged. "He doesn't mind me knowing what happened, I think, but he's very tired."

"Well, so am I," Robbie snapped.

Íþróttaálfurinn's grin tightened, flickering for less than a second into the barest hint of a grimace. "Okay, kid, listen ––"

"I'm not a _kid_."

"I am a hundred and twenty-two years old, yes you are."

" _Sorry_ ," Robbie barked, startled into outright laughter, "does that line usually _intimidate_ people?"

"If I wanted to intimidate you," Íþróttaálfurinn said lightly, rocking back on his heels and then forward into Robbie's space before continuing _very kindly_ , as though sharing a closely guarded secret: " _you would be intimidated_."

He backed off. Arms crossed again. Smile gone. "As it is," he said, "I am trying _very_ hard not to jump to any conclusions about why it might be that my brother suddenly finds it necessary to protect himself from _fae magic_."

Trying to keep up with Íþróttaálfurinn's abrupt changes in tone felt a lot like trying to follow a particularly intense game of one-person ping pong, with the added threat that if he lost track of the ball it was likely to end up either directly underfoot or flying straight at his face.

Of course, that whole visual was just one more thing to keep track of. Taking a brief moment to be horrified that his brain had jumped straight to a _sports analogy_ , Robbie wrenched it out of metaphor-crafting territory altogether, leaving him with just about enough thinking space to comprehend that last sentence, but not enough to completely panic about it.

Not _yet_.

He set his jaw. Forced himself to look the elf in the eye. Deep breath. "Jump to whatever conclusions you like."

Íþróttaálfurinn met his gaze evenly. "I don't like _any_ of them."

"How about I save us both a lot of time and just confirm what you're probably thinking –– _I'm_ _a_ _bad person_."

"Wrong," Íþróttaálfurinn said instantly.

Robbie groaned. "Oh, _please_ don't give me some song and dance about how there's no such thing as bad people."

Íþróttaálfurinn's expression changed to one of bewildered indignance. "There are _very_ bad people; how foolish do I _look_?"

Robbie's eyes, unbidden, flicked to his hat. And then down to the rest of his outfit. "...Well."

Íþróttaálfurinn huffed. "Don't answer that."

"Oh, you _don't_ want answers. Great." Robbie reached past him for the top of the hatch. "Are we done here?"

"Robbie ––"

The elf moved as though to grab his arm; Robbie flinched before he could stop himself and Íþróttaálfurinn hastily withdrew his hand and backed a few steps away.

"...Please," he said quietly, and when Robbie finally managed to look at his face he was –– different. Some layer of bravado had fallen away, expressionless mask entirely failing to slide into place over suddenly open _distress_. "I just... I _need_ to know what happened to him."

Damn it.

"You are both so _sickeningly earnest_ ," Robbie ground out, smacking a hand over his eyes and then peering disdainfully through his fingers. "And _don't_ think I don't recognize emotional manipulation when it's staring me in the face with _puppy-dog eyes_." Oh, sure, the elf's dismay was no doubt _real_ , but he didn't have to let Robbie _see_ it.

Íþróttaálfurinn's mouth twitched briefly into a smirk before he quite managed to school his features back into I'm-just-a-worried-older-brother-please-take-pity-on-me mode. "Does that mean you'll tell me?"

Robbie stared at him, wondering how much of this lapse out _of_ the calculated lapse of control had _also_ been calculated.

He did not enjoy the feeling of having _circles_ run around him.

" _I_ have questions too," he said brusquely, crossing his arms and leaning sideways against the ladder and –– trying to look like he _wasn't_ so tired it felt like his skin was crawling.

"Fair enough." Íþróttaálfurinn inclined his head. "You first."

Robbie opened his mouth and –– did not _quite_ manage to stop himself from saying what he hadn't actually _realized_ he was going to say, because –– oh.

Oh.

 _This_ was why he'd gotten angry.

"Do you know how much you _fucking terrify him_? How much he _worries_ about you?"

He clapped a hand over his mouth the second it registered –– he shouldn't have _said_ –– it wasn't his _place_ to just –– _but_.

But.

There was something vindictively satisfying about the way the elf blanched. Tensed up. Actually seemed to _think_ about Robbie's words instead of immediately countering them and steering the conversation right back to where he wanted it.

"I... didn't," he said at last, not quite meeting Robbie's glare. "I –– it's –– I do. Now. We just... talked about that. Actually."

" _Good_ ," Robbie snapped. He would probably feel... very foolish, once the adrenaline died down, but for now –– good.

Íþróttaálfurinn did look at him, then. "He talks to you?"

"That counts as a question," Robbie said quickly. "And –– yes. He... a little. Kind of."

"...Good." Íþróttaálfurinn nodded, and gestured for him to go on.

Robbie tilted his head, wondering exactly how many answers he could wring out of this interaction before it inevitably went downhill, and trying to prioritize accordingly. "Were you lying when you said you couldn't tell I was part fae?"

Íþróttaálfurinn blinked, grim solemnity giving way to confusion. "What?"

"That––"

"That did _not_ count as a question, just –– explain."

Well, it had been worth a shot. Robbie sighed. "You know Glanni. You said I looked familiar. I would assume you'd draw certain conclusions from that." _And I need to know exactly how good you are at lying._

"Ah." Íþróttaálfurinn rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "I wasn't –– _exactly_ lying, no. I assumed Glæpur just happened to have some completely human family running around––"

"I do not _run around_ ––"

"––until I noticed the magic coming from your lair. Then I just assumed you were very good at hiding it."

...And something about that –– was ––

–– _wrong_.

Or not wrong, exactly, just... off. Somehow. _Off_ in a way that made Robbie feel... out of place. Out of time. Like he'd slid sideways a few inches through the fabric of reality.

...He'd had a similar feeling the last time the elf had commented on this, too, hadn't he? At the time he'd put it down to Íþróttaálfurinn's sheer, overbearing _presence_ , but. Perhaps not. But _why_ would ––

Ah.

There it was.

A tendril of memory –– a flicker of faces, the fractured beginnings of a thought process –– trying to break through. Robbie brushed it impatiently aside and hoped it would still be there later. Why _now_ , of all times? Why never when he was _trying_ to remember?

"Well," he huffed. " _Thanks_. I _am_."

"My turn," Íþróttaálfurinn said. He regarded Robbie critically for a moment, and then: "Why did you make my brother those gloves?"

Robbie bit back the first, _most_ infuriatingly evasive answer to come to mind –– _so he could ward them_ –– and went with the second. "Because it's my fault he needs them. My turn."

"Robbie ––"

"Why'd you leave the Order?" Not that he needed this information, exactly, but it couldn't hurt to keep Íþróttaálfurinn as off-kilter as possible. He fully expected the answer to be _because I felt like it; what did you do to my brother_ , which was roughly the level of back-and-forth he currently felt up to.

Instead the elf gave him a hard look, drew himself up to his full height (such as it was), and said, with hardly a pause for breath:

"Because I have very poor foresight and didn't think things through before becoming the previous Number 10's apprentice; I think the Order needs to be restructured from the ground up if it's ever going to be anything more than a hollow gesture of _good will_ meant to bribe newer generations of humanity into forgetting past conflicts with my people, and I'm a walking disaster who panics about being tied down to a routine and responsibilities so instead of sticking around to do that work myself I ran off to play hero and let _this_ happen." He gestured sharply over his shoulder, as if to encompass the surrounding area and everything in it or conspicuously absent _from_ it.

Taking a deep breath and not taking his eyes off Robbie, who felt rooted in place, he crossed his arms and continued:

"So now that we're clear on where _I'm_ coming from as far as _blame_ , I'm going to ask again and I would appreciate a real answer: what _happened_ to my _brother_?"

"...Well," Robbie said, sliding weakly to the ground against the ladder. "When you put it _that_ way."

"If we equate failure with deliberate wrongdoing, none of us are blameless," Íþróttaálfurinn said softly, and then promptly ruined the effect by uncrossing his arms and cartwheeling into an absurdly solemn handstand.

Robbie fought off a wave of hysterical laughter, and then just a wave of hysteria. If only it were that simple. And that _wasn't_ simple, really, just –– he couldn't even have _that_. "And if, hypothetically speaking, I'm guilty of _both_?"

Íþróttaálfurinn tilted his head thoughtfully. "Well, I'd say everyone is, at least a little bit."

"I'm not talking about a _little bit_."

"I'm hardly in a position to judge."

"No, but you are in a position to _murder me_."

Íþróttaálfurinn gave a disconcertingly hearty laugh, all the more unnerving for the fact that he was still upside-down. "Oh, I wouldn't do _that_. It would set off Sport's crystal, and I'd much rather let him rest."

Robbie gaped at him. Grasped for words and somehow came up with, "Why did you say I'm not a bad person?"

"Because you're not."

Out of nowhere, another flash of rage –– why was he acting like it was all so _simple_ and _easy_ –– but Robbie kept his mouth shut until it had passed, and then he said, "You can't possibly know that."

"I've _met_ bad people," Íþróttaálfurinn said, like it was some sort of qualification, third item down on a resume –– can do a ridiculous number of consecutive backflips, am extremely unsettling, have met bad people. "Glamours notwithstanding, I'm a pretty good judge of character."

"Glamours notwithstanding, none of this would be _happening_."

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes like _Robbie_ was being the unreasonable one, which was entirely unfair for a lot of reasons beginning with the simple fact that Robbie was not the one currently carrying on this conversation _mid_ - _handstand_. "You're not glamouring me."

"I could be!"

"No you couldn't."

Fury pricked at the back of his neck and this time Robbie did _not_ keep his mouth shut and wait for it to pass. " _Just_ because I'm not ––"

"It's nothing to do with you," Íþróttaálfurinn said calmly. "I spent a great deal of last night thinking through every single shred of information I have about this place and everyone in it, _including_ you, and then the idea of glamours in general, and... Nothing happened."

"Oh, well, in _that_ case," Robbie said, sarcasm dripping from the words, "I guess if you didn't _see_ the thing that's _designed_ to _not_ _be_ _seen_ , it _must_ not be there."

"Once you've got hold of one thread," said Íþróttaálfurinn, with infuriating patience, "it's fairly easy to follow it and find the others. Sometimes too easy. Like the second glamour break last night."

Well... Well, _fine_ , so that was _true_ , and Robbie knew it, and he was running out of semantics to argue with. "All _right_ ," he said, through gritted teeth, "so I'm not glamouring you. That doesn't make me a good person."

Íþróttaálfurinn raised his eyebrows. "I didn't say you were. I said you're not a bad one."

"Well, _thanks_ ," Robbie snapped, purely on instinct, too startled by the bluntness to be genuinely offended.

Íþróttaálfurinn winced. "What I mean is –– most people _aren't_ good or bad. We're just... people. With the capacity to do both. And if we start to think of ourselves as _bad_ people... That's the lazy way out. Resigning yourself to every bad habit and flaw instead of trying to fix them. Looking at past mistakes and misdeeds as something that _has_ to define us –– well, they _will_ , if we let them. _Or_ we can learn from them. Vow not to repeat them. Try to better ourselves."

Utterly exasperated, Robbie dragged a hand down his face. "You said you were talking to Sportacus earlier?"

"Yes?"

"Did he fall asleep before you ran out of lecture material, or what?"

Íþróttaálfurinn actually laughed. "Maybe! Or maybe you just looked like you needed a pep talk."

"I'm a lazy jerk who'd rather wallow in my own misery than improve myself as a person," Robbie said dryly. "Hell of a _pep_ _talk_."

"No, see, I meant you don't _have_ to be a ––" The elf made a face. "...Okay, look, I might be out of practice at the art of _civilized conversation_ , but you _know_ what I meant."

Robbie did know. And it made a distressing amount of sense.

He therefore made the only appropriate tactical decision, which was to change the subject. "Exactly how thrilled do you expect Sportadork to be when he finds out you went behind his back to get answers out of _me_?"

Íþróttaálfurinn affected an almost _offensively_ over the top look of wounded honor, clutching one hand to his chest and remaining improbably steady on the other. "I would never! He _said_ he wouldn't mind telling me things, he was just too tired."

Robbie raised an eyebrow. "Somehow I doubt the question of when –– of _whether_ we're... 'getting our shit together' is on the list of things he was just too _tired_ to talk about."

"Wellll." Íþróttaálfurinn gave a one-shouldered shrug before finally settling both hands back on the ground. "What kind of brother am I if I don't take an opportunity to _meddle_ when I see it?"

"A _respectful_ one?" Robbie suggested.

Íþróttaálfurinn hummed thoughtfully, as though considering this apparently brand new concept, and then scrunched up his face. "Nah. Sounds boring."

"Look, if you're worried about –– about –– just, there's nothing... happening," Robbie said, _forbidding_ himself to feel anything akin to _regret_ at the truth of that statement. "We're not –– I'm not –– if you're trying to _scare me away_ from him or whatever, just... Don't waste your time."

The elf's brow furrowed. "What makes you think I'm trying to scare you away from him?"

Robbie gave an expansive shrug that he hoped got across –– why _not_? why is _any_ of this happening? "Meddling?" he hazarded.

" _Positive_ meddling," Íþróttaálfurinn said, voice firm. "I trust my brother's judgement."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't." Robbie blinked. He'd meant to snap. Instead it had come out dull and resigned.

Íþróttaálfurinn's face slid back towards expressionless intensity. "And why is that?"

"Because he trusts _me_!" Ah. _There_ was the snap. Clearly his subconscious had sensed where this was going and decided to save it up. Good work, everybody. Next assignment: figure out why he was suddenly _shaking_.

The elf regarded him silently for a moment, still with that serious, blank look, and when he spoke again his voice was alarmingly gentle. "Why _shouldn't_ he trust you, Robbie?"

"I –– you ––" _go away, go away go away go away or let_ _ **me**_ _go away I can't do this –– shut up shut up shut_ _ **up**_ _yes we can_ _he deserves to know and he'll find out eventually_ _––_

Robbie sat up straighter, because everything in him wanted him to curl up tight, defensive ––

Deep breath. He forced his mind to go as blank as he could manage, shoved everything down, back –– what he wouldn't give for some good old _existential_ _apathy_ right about now.

Clutching painfully tight to the ladder with his left hand, he stuck out his right and ignored the trembling, put the steadiness instead into his gaze and his voice as he locked eyes with the elf. "I want your Word," he said firmly, "that if I tell you what happened, you're not going to kill me. Or have anyone else kill me."

Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes widened. "Robbie, I would never ––"

"Then you'll have no trouble making a Deal to that effect," Robbie said, voice clipped, arm still extended between them.

Of course, handshakes weren't a _necessary_ component, but they did add a certain air of formality.

They also made Deals much, _much_ harder to break.

Íþróttaálfurinn was eyeing his hand warily. "I don't just go around making Deals ––"

"I'm sure you don't," Robbie said pleasantly. "But since you're _so_ sure I'm not a bad person, and since, as you say, you would _never_..." He let the sentence trail off, watching the elf expectantly.

Íþróttaálfurinn looked up from Robbie's outstretched hand. Met his gaze again and nodded, slowly. Lifted his own right hand, reached out –– shook.

"Deal," he said quietly.

_**Deal.** _

"Okay," Robbie said, snatching his hand back and shaking it out with a grimace. "First, though, can you _please_ just –– _stop_ –– with the –– stop –– _being_ _upside_ - _down_ , you're making _me_ lightheaded."

"Oh! Right." Íþróttaálfurinn dropped to his feet, spun so he was still facing Robbie, then settled cross-legged... hovering a few inches above the ground, _still_ supporting himself on his hands. "How's this?"

Robbie sighed. Deeply. "If you _must_. I... don't really know where to start."

"Sportacus said something happened," Íþróttaálfurinn prompted, "that made him realize Number 9 must have done something wrong?"

Robbie hissed in a sharp breath. "Oh, right, _that_ little mishap." He cleared his throat. "Um. He... may have had a run-in with one of my old defenses that I... didn't realize was still in place."

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but Íþróttaálfurinn's gaze somehow managed to intensify. "What sort of defense?"

"Um." Robbie shut his eyes. Bit his tongue. _Just get it over with_. "Scrap metal treated with synthetic elfbane."

" _What_?"

"It –– it –– got into his bloodstream, that's –– that ––" Apparently he'd decided _get it over with_ also meant _go_ _over every terrible detail_ and could somebody please _help_ him he couldn't seem to stop _talking_ –– "I mean that was the point of it being on something _sharp_ , it sliced up his hand but he sent the kids to get me and I –– well. I mean, draw your own conclusions, he's not _dead_."

He risked squinting one eye open, very belatedly realizing that he hadn't made Íþróttaálfurinn agree not to _hurt_ him, and vigilance was therefore probably in his best interests, but the elf was still just... watching him. Sternly, but not angrily. Not as far as Robbie could tell, at least.

"How is it," Íþróttaálfurinn said, voice low, "you can so easily say 'it's my fault, I'm a bad person' and then draw the line at 'also I saved his life'?"

Robbie's jaw dropped. " _What_?"

" _Also_ –– just, yes, look, I'm..." Íþróttaálfurinn dragged one hand down his face and dropped ungracefully to the ground, as though he'd forgotten what he was doing. "...going to process the fact _later_ that my brother was _poisoned_ , but –– you know how to _synthesize_ _elfbane_?"

"Well, I had to try _something_!" Robbie snapped, and –– there the elf went _again_ with the impossibly intensifying stare.

"Okay," Íþróttaálfurinn said, speaking slowly, "I'm... going to change my question, or at least –– I'm adding another one, that I should have also started with –– Robbie, what happened to _you_?"

Oh.

What –– why did _that_ matter?

Robbie opened his mouth to voice this question and couldn't get the syllables out, fought himself briefly and in the end managed, "I... don't know."

He paused. Waited for an accusation, another question, any kind of interruption, but Íþróttaálfurinn was still just... looking at him.

Robbie looked away. Took a deep breath. "I thought I knew. What happened to me, what happened to the town, and then –– it's... Now it's all... I don't know how much of it was real and how much of it was the glamour just... paving over actual memories with plausible enough replacements. That's... Sportacus has been... helping. With that. Trying to, at least. Helping as much as anyone can."

Íþróttaálfurinn leaned forward, resting his chin on one hand, like this was some _interesting_ _story_ he was listening to, and not a yet-unfolding disaster he'd been roped into _helping unfold_. "So how much are you sure of?"

Robbie tried to think and couldn't, or rather, he couldn't seem to think without _talking_ , his entire thought process was just –– just –– _spilling_ _out_ and he didn't even _know_ what he was saying until he heard his own voice.

"I –– don't know. There's things I know that I don't even –– _know_ I know, until something makes me think of them, and then –– see, I didn't actually remember. Making the elfbane. I knew why it was there and I knew I _did_ make it and I do know _how_ to make it but I just didn't –– didn't think about the fact that I didn't _remember_ , but now –– now –– now that we're talking about –– the fact that I _did_ make it, I –– see, I can remember. Deciding to try it, I remember the formulas that didn't work, but I –– don't... know... if that's real."

Íþróttaálfurinn tilted his head. "...Doesn't it have to be? I mean, the glamour is gone."

"I think –– I think –– my brain just. Spent so long trying to keep itself together with this big –– just this whole _section_ of itself that was all... glamoured over, and when that was suddenly _gone_ , it just... tried to fill in the gaps itself and I'm still –– I'm still trying to figure out what it's hiding and what it's making up and what actually –– it's all..." He forced himself to stop. Dragged up a self-deprecating laugh. "It's a mess. Basically."

"That's... fair," Íþróttaálfurinn said, sitting up straight. "It did get nearly a decade's head start."

Robbie shrugged, staring at the ground. Waiting for thoughts that just... weren't forming. Eventually, the elf spoke up again.

"...So what else has happened? Why the –– well. I think I understand why gloves, but why _warded_ gloves?"

"One thing I do remember is... the forest," Robbie found himself saying, and, after a moment's consideration, didn't try to _stop_ , because, well, they had to broach the subject sooner or later. "Not... not right around town, or I'm sure you would have –– maybe that's... _why_ not right around town, Number 9 would have noticed it right away."

"Noticed what, Robbie?"

"Magic. My magic. I... I think one day he... chased me."

What?

Where had that come from?

Robbie frowned, but kept talking, thoughts solidifying into maybe-memories as he voiced them. "Out into the woods, and I got away, he wasn't... really trying to _catch_ me but I just –– instead of going back I just kept... running. I don't ––" He swallowed thickly, clenched his hands into fists, aware that he was shaking again or maybe just aware again that he'd been shaking this whole time. "I don't know if this is true, I don't know if any of this is _true_."

"That's –– that's okay, there's... You have time. To figure it out."

"Doesn't –– doesn't matter, anyway," Robbie muttered, forcing himself to look back up. "The point is the town was _his_ but the forest, this –– little piece of the forest, it –– it was _mine_ , I –– could protect myself there, I could... think, or. Not... need to."

Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes widened. "Robbie, that's –– are you familiar with the concept of Havens?"

"I... don't know." The word was vaguely familiar, but at this point he wasn't prepared to declare with any amount of confidence that he was familiar with the concept of _shoes_.

He watched with detached amusement as Íþróttaálfurinn opened and shut his mouth a few times in quick succession, repeatedly looking away from him and then back. "Okay, I... don't want to interrupt you if you're remembering things, and this... might be something I should explain to you _and_ my brother, um. Please continue."

Continue. Right. This was going to get... interesting.

Robbie took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I just... When –– when we decided it was time to break _me_ out of the glamour, I... suggested we go to the woods, I didn't really... think about it. I just... knew that was where I... always..."

There was a glimmer of –– something. Some thought. Idea. Memory. Maybe. Robbie tried to leap on it but it just –– _evaporated_ , and the elf was still just _watching_ him but now he had a look on his face like he'd just solved part of a _puzzle_ and Robbie leapt instead on the annoyance this sparked, let it drag him through the process of continuing to speak until he could get his feet under him and keep the momentum going without it.

"...where I always went to get away from Number –– from Óséðurskuggi. I just knew the woods were... safe. That and I didn't want to be too close to the town if anything went horribly wrong. Which, uh. It did."

"How?"

_Okay._

_Get it over with._

"I ––" Robbie gulped, looking down again. "We... argued. After. About what to do, and I –– I –– I was wearing a lot of... anti-elf wards, just –– for safety's sake, the glamour, but I –– "

–– _punched him, I punched him, you_ _ **punched**_ _him ––_

"–– I shoved him off the path. I... both of us. We ended up... and it just... It was like I wasn't –– I couldn't –– I didn't _know_ anything, I couldn't think. I felt... I _just_ _felt_ , and... let the forest think instead."

"And it thought 'kill the elf.'"

Robbie wrenched his head up from where he'd been staring resolutely at the ground, and stared instead at Íþróttaálfurinn –– who was staring right back and had gone perfectly, dangerously still.

"You... How did..."

Íþróttaálfurinn inhaled sharply, the color draining from his face. "I guessed right, then?"

Words wouldn't come. Robbie nodded.

"...Okay. Give me... a second."

Robbie tried to nod again and couldn't get his neck to cooperate. He pulled himself tighter against the ladder, watching warily as the elf absorbed this information.

Íþróttaálfurinn crossed his arms –– uncrossed them –– shut his eyes and pressed the index finger of one clenched fist to the bridge of his nose –– opened his eyes, looked at Robbie, pinning him with an inscrutably blank gaze –– then away, tilted his head back, stared up at the sky for a bit.

Exhaled explosively and looked back down.

" _Okay_ ," he said, voice low. Calm. "You're... both _alive_. So. That's... That's the most important thing."

" _What_?"

"These things––"

"No, I'm sorry, _what_?" Robbie was rapidly revising his earlier opinion re: Íþróttaálfurinn and shovel talks. Apparently he was terrible at them, and Robbie was –– _indignant_ , frankly, on behalf of Sportacus _and_ himself, and that was apparently enough to jostle him out of whatever fugue state he'd fallen into. "I spent roughly an _hour and a half_ trying to _murder him_."

"No," Íþróttaálfurinn said firmly. "A much _younger_ Robbie spent an hour and a half _using_ you to try and get rid of something he saw as a threat. Whatever happened on the path is... between you and my brother, and like I said, I trust his judgement. But the forest –– all right, this whole subject is... very complicated, but Havens can be extremely ––"

" _No_ ," Robbie snapped, fury rising from a slow simmer in the pit of his stomach and boiling over into a searing heat in his chest, his hands, his face. "No, _shut up_ , the forest did what I _taught_ it to do and it almost –– _I almost killed your brother_ , do you not –– how can –– get _angry_ , damn it!"

"Oh, I _am_ angry," Íþróttaálfurinn assured him, and that low voice Robbie had perceived as a controlled calm suddenly sounded about half a step further from that control, inching closer to a growl. "I'm _furious_. When I get my hands on Óséðurskuggi ––"

" _Óséðurskuggi_?" Robbie demanded, pulling himself up to stand on numb legs, clutching the ladder for support. His thoughts were bubbling over into incoherent emotions –– none of them pleasant. Having been so unexpectedly let off the hook, some part of him was rebelling, refusing this preposterous turn of events, _clinging_ to the hook. " _I'm_ the one who led us into the woods, _I'm_ the one who pushed him off the path, _I'm_ the one who ––"

He didn't even blink. One moment the elf was on the ground across from him, and then with a blur that Robbie very ( _very_ ) retroactively recognized as a transitional stage, he was on his feet, yanking Robbie down to eye level by the chain in his vest.

" _Listen_ to me," the elf hissed, and Robbie –– tried to. Really. He was trying to do a lot of things, on very short notice. Not fall over. Not black out. Not cast any of the dozen defensive incantations all crowding to the forefront of his mind, none of which could ultimately do anything but escalate this situation; he was in no state to fight. Added to the to-do list: ignore his own heartbeat, which was too fast, too palpable, and too suddenly, dizzyingly _loud ––_  ignore all that, andlisten to the elf.

Something like regret flashed across Íþróttaálfurinn's face, and he took a deep breath and let go, backing away. "It's _not_ your _fault_ ," he growled, flexing his hands in and out of trembling fists at his sides. "And I am _trying_ to hold onto that fact but right now it is proving _difficult_ , so _please_ do not argue with me about this because you _might_ _just_ _win_."

Robbie opened his mouth –– briefly panicked because he had _no_ _idea_ what he was planning to say and his track record on that front throughout this conversation had so far not been a _great_ one –– and was saved by two simultaneous interruptions.

A very familiar beeping sound made itself known, emanating from the same leg pouch that had held the dispersal medallions.

And someone screamed.

A child.

A _child_ screamed.

It wasn't a mundane call for help –– wasn't some kid holding tight to yet another tree branch, or yelping at a prank. It was high, and sharp, and wordless.

Íþróttaálfurinn whirled around.

Robbie, on the other hand, froze. There were too many things happening, too many things worth panicking about, his heart was in his throat and he was flashing back and forth between an utter lack of proprioception and far too much awareness of every inch of himself. "What's –– where ––"

"Sports field," Íþróttaálfurinn said tersely. He took off like a shot, calling back "Stephanie!" over his shoulder, and then he was nothing but a distant blur.

Sports field.

Stephanie.

 _Stephanie_.

Heart still hammering unpleasantly against his ribcage, and his larynx, and the inside of his skull, Robbie weighed the required energy output of teleportation against that of –– ugh –– _running_ , and was already snapping his fingers by the time it occurred to him that he hadn't even considered just staying put.

* * *

_[Art](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/158483547257/okay-i-loved-the-newest-chapter-of-into-the-light) by [Celepom](http://celepom.tumblr.com/). Posted here with artist's permission. More [here](http://celepom.tumblr.com/post/158491215957/i-made-more-because-this-whole-exchange-was-gold)._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) OKAY, IN MY DEFENSE, THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE A CLIFFHANGER. WE'RE STILLLL IN TERRITORY THAT I ORIGINALLY THOUGHT WAS ALL GOING TO BE CHAPTER 9.
> 
> 2) ...So anyway the good news is I have the first several pages of Chapter 13 written. The better news is it's not just two people standing around talking for upwards of 6000 words, and Sportacus gets to do something besides be tired.
> 
> 3) Robbie plz just let Íþrótt pull you in under his Overprotective Umbrella, there is plenty of room.
> 
> 4) Yes, Robbie's more willing to own up to the murder forest than he is to the punch. No, that's not getting glossed over.
> 
> 5) I've reread and restructured and rewritten this chapter so many times it no longer makes any sense to me at all, so it didn't get my usual final readthrough while getting rid of all the doublespacing that shows up in the transfer from libreoffice to here. I'm sure I'll be back to fix things.


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